Ripening

As I approached the doors to my church this past Sunday, a shadow of melancholy flitted across my consciousness. It appeared and disappeared so quickly I might have missed it if I had been even slightly distracted. But, as luck would have it, I was in a contemplative place at that moment and keenly aware of my feelings.

The source of the melancholy is no mystery to me. It is the last remnants of a sadness borne of the grief of losing a dear friend. Like the smell of ash after the flame has been extinguished, it reminds me of a painful fire but has lost its power to burn. It is transforming and has been since its beginning. From its initial anguish and sorrow to grief and sadness and now to melancholy, it is changing, ripening. As the sorrow diminishes, the memory sweetens. Some day I shall look back and cherish that time without my heart feeling as though it is breaking. That is the hope I cling to. I've walked this path enough times to recognize familiar landmarks along the way. I also know you can't rush the journey or take shortcuts. That would be like trying to will an apple to ripen prematurely. There's a reason why my grocery store charges more for "vine-ripened" fruit - there is value in letting the process evolve naturally and fully.

My friend also went to this church and I feel her absence particularly strongly this time of year. She was an active sort, the kind to step in when something needed doing.  In my memory, she was particularly active during Advent and Christmas and it doesn't surprise me that her shadow would make its brief appearance now. That's how it seems to work - the places and things where our lost ones were most present is where they now feel most absent. Remembering them can bring joy and sorrow in a single thought. A bittersweet apple not yet fully ripe.

Shields Down

If I can focus on the data, I can shield myself from the pain.

Maybe if I can reduce the horrific acts of last week to a pile of numbers and mundane facts, I can ignore the rest of it - limit everything to a cerebral accounting of statistics.

Where did it happen? How many were killed, injured? Is the assailant arrested? What type of weapon was used? Data, data, data.

But not all data. Keep the victim information as superficial as possible.

Names? No, please don't give me names or ages. And don't tell me what they were doing. Don't tell me they were just shopping in a grocery store or praying in their house of worship. Don't tell me. I know what it's like to do these things because I do these things. If I allow myself to think about these people it will be easy for me to paint a vivid picture of them living their lives. And that's a problem, because now they aren't just numbers. Now, they're people. People just like me and my neighbors and my family. If I can imagine them shopping or praying, it's only a small step to imagine their terror and pain. If they are so like my neighbors and family, how can I not feel anger or a sense of loss at their murders?

But, maybe that's the point. It feels like these shootings are happening with increasing frequency. It seems like the flag is at half staff more often than full. You barely have time to absorb one tragedy before another one hits you in the gut. The desire to not think too deeply about each one is understandable but, I think, dangerous. We should feel angry and sad and nauseous. We should be uncomfortable. Just because it's happening more often does not make it any less abnormal or disgusting. Going numb is taking the first step on the path of acceptance. And I refuse to accept this.

Bits and Pieces

Sometimes, if I have a quiet moment, I'll close my eyes and try to conjure up a distant memory of growing up on the farm. If I focus, I can remember bits and pieces of operating our old Case tractor as a young boy. I can remember the feel of the seat and the gentle lurch when the tractor first started moving. At some point, Dad made a rack that attached to the hitch and held a 55 gallon drum. One of my chores was to fetch water from our pond for the cows. I remember that the top of the lidless drum was close to level with the tractor seat and not all that far from it. The drive back from the pond was always an exercise in trying to drive as smoothly as possible. Even so, it was impossible to do the trip without getting water sloshed on your back. I remember bits and pieces. I wish I could recall more.

I wish there was a way to rank my memories - to designate the lyrics to some old pop song as less worthy of retention than my days on the farm. Unfortunately, sometimes it seems just the opposite is true. I guess I kind of understand it. Many of the memories I cherish and strain to remember now were perfectly ordinary moments at the time. You don't put a lot of effort into remembering what it feels like to drive a tractor when there's a reasonable chance you'll be driving it again tomorrow.

So, instead I try to spend a few moments now dredging up the scattered bits and pieces: The way it felt to sprawl across my father as he tried to nap on the sun porch; The faint smell of tobacco and cigarette smoke; The rough feel of stubble when my cheek brushed against his. I consciously pull these fragments to the fore-front in an attempt to retain them just a little longer.

As I go through seemingly ordinary days now, I'm mindful that someday I may look back to find that memories of these times have become treasures as well. I realize I need to spend time now appreciating the everyday normal of our lives - to take the time to really commit the experience to long term memory. I wish I'd done a better job of this when my boys were younger - at the time, life was hectic and funny and exhilarating and scary and it seemed impossible that I would ever forget any of it. Now, I look back and most of it's there but some of the detail is blurred. Luckily, my kids have young minds without as much stuff in them and they can help me fill in the missing pieces. A part of me hopes that having them remind me now will help them remember later in life.

So, here I sit - straining to recall the night sky on a clear winter night while simultaneously trying to block out the refrain from "Night Fever" ringing in my head.

Thoughts By My Son's Grave

I visited my son's grave today.
I brought a hoe to clear away the grass from the edges of the headstone.
I knew there would be grass, there's always grass,
Creeping, encroaching, covering.
It's as if Nature is trying to erase my son's existence.
Of course, I know this isn't true.
Nature is only doing what Nature does,
Growing, thriving, living.
All the things my son wasn't able to do.
I also know the state of this headstone doesn't reflect my memory of him.
If it did, this marker would look as fresh and new as the day it was installed.

Roadtrip

Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump. The gaps in the interstate highway come at regular intervals. The cruise control is locked in at seventy miles an hour and I briefly consider timing the interval and calculating the distance. I decide I don't care enough to put out the effort. My back hurts a little and I am tired. Not tired in a good way like after a workout or some other physical activity. I'm tired in that way you get from doing next to nothing for hours on end. We are traveling from here to there. The end points are both places I love. The in-between is the price I pay for the visit.

As I glance at the surrounding countryside, it occurs to me that we could just as easily be driving on a treadmill. It's like we're in a cheap movie and they keep repeating the same background: fields, some cows, a farm, more fields, a tractor, another farm. Small to medium sized towns pop up with regularity. I assume their spacing was probably somehow driven by the needs of travelers before automobiles. I'm grateful for these markers as they give me at least a little feedback that we are indeed progressing. Eventually, the little town I count down the miles to will be our destination but I try not to think of that right now. Instead, I watch the distance signs for the next town. For me, this drive is like climbing a ladder and these towns are the rungs.

I know people say you should focus on the journey and not just the destination. Every time we take this trip we have good intentions of doing just that. We started the trip with good conversation and then a little music. Bit by bit the conversation dried up and we had trouble agreeing on the music. The other passengers fell away to other interests. My son is in the backseat, sketching. My wife is next to me, doing something on her iPad. I am left trying think of something, anything to distract me from thinking about how tired I am of holding this steering wheel.

Perhaps this might be a good time to practice some mindfulness breathing exercises. For awhile now, I've been intrigued by meditation and I think I could probably benefit from it. I'm interested enough to read a little about it but not so much as to actually seriously try it. I remember an article I read about the physiological response the body has to taking steady deeps breaths in through the nose and expelling them from the mouth. It's supposed to help relieve stress. I shared this insight with my family once as a tool that might be helpful for all of us. Now, I find myself with nothing but time. It seems like a good time to practice breathing. Big deep breath, in through the nose, exhale through the mouth. And another. On the third breath my wife grabs my arm, wondering what I'm stressed about. I assure her I'm fine, just bored. She returns to her iPad and I resume normal breathing.

About a quarter of a mile ahead, I see a small lump by the side of the road. I perk up a little bit. Nothing breaks up a trip like inspecting roadkill. As we rumble past, I study the pile of fur. There's nothing distinguishing about what's left of this creature. I assume it's a raccoon just because it's almost always a raccoon. We're fairly close to my hometown, the place where I grew up, and it occurs to me that I've never seen a live raccoon down here. I've seen gophers and opossums and skunks and foxes, but no living, breathing raccoons. Raccoons are either really good at hiding or really bad at crossing roads.

I feel bad for the roadkill, especially in the springtime. I imagine the raccoon, emerging from his hiding place, sniffing the air and realizing winter is over. He's done it again! He's survived those frozen icy months with little to eat - living on the sheer determination that better days were ahead. And here it is, Spring at last. He must have felt absolutely giddy. I can see him, dancing his happy dance in the ditch - eyes closed, nose in the air, shaking and shuffling, a smug smile on his face. At some point he probably noticed that the grass beneath his feet had been replaced by pavement, but by then it was too late. He had danced himself onto the highway and his fate was sealed.

We pass another small town and I begin the countdown to the next one. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

I Think I've Already Been To Heaven

The dust on an old farm road is as fine as flour. The same rich soil that nurtures the crops comprises this path. It's baked by the sun until it cracks and then pulverized by the wheels of countless tractors and wagons making trips to and from the fields. It's so fine it explodes in plumes when the first drops of a summer shower strike it.

It's not raining today. A few clouds move across the bright summer sky. Their shadows provide a moment of cool relief as they pass by. I could walk on this path without disturbing the dust too much but it's much more fun to shuffle my feet and maintain a small cloud around my shoes. Twelve year olds don't mind a little dirt. In fact, they prefer it.

I'm too far from the pasture and pond to hear any meadowlarks or red winged blackbirds. The only bird I see is a killdeer. She's been hopping along the road a few yards in front of me, occasionally dragging a wing in the dust, feigning injury. I'm not hunting her but she doesn't know that. As far as she knows, everything is going according to plan - I've been duped into thinking she's vulnerable. Eventually, when I've walked far enough from her hidden nest, she flies off.

Small brown grasshoppers flit about, seemingly exchanging places with each other. Each jump produces a buzz and the constant crackling makes the air seem almost electrified. As I walk I begin to pick up the distant rumble of a tractor and dogs barking.

When I come to the place where the road turns, I stop and look ahead, across a field of soybeans. Beyond the beans lies a field of alfalfa and I can see Dad on the tractor, pulling the mower. Our dogs bound around the mower blade, excitedly barking, ready to give chase to any poor creature suddenly exposed. The younger dog, Doc, spots me and comes galloping across the field. I drop to my knees so I can wrap an arm around his neck and scratch his chest. But this is just a quick hello and he breaks free, anxious to get back to the party.

As Doc runs back to the tractor I wonder if Dad has noticed me. Probably not as he is focused on the mower, trying to cut alfalfa and not dogs. I stand and watch a bit longer, waiting until he gets to the end of the field. If he's going to look up, it'll be while he's turning for the next pass. Whether or not I see him look, I'll give a half-wave, just enough to say "Hi" but not so much that it might be misinterpreted as "Come quick, emergency!" Then, I'll turn and start back.

Sometimes I wonder - If I lead a good life, if I show kindness to others. I wonder if when I die I'll wake up, twelve years old, walking on that road again.

Sermon Daydream

Whales are fantastic creatures. I'm a fan of nature documentaries and whales are a frequent and popular subject. Despite their large size, they are generally characterized as fairly benign and peaceful creatures. Perhaps their size affords them the luxury of ignoring the drama of so much of the sea. I like whales. I like thinking that there are these massive animals moving about our planet just doing their own thing.

When I'm on vacation and near an ocean, I'm always on the lookout for whales. I've never gone out with the explicit mission of seeing one. I haven't taken a whale watching tour or anything like that. That feels like being a bit of a pest. My search is much more passive. If I'm near the water, I keep an eye out, just in case. Everyone knows, sooner or later whales need to come to the surface.

That's the crazy thing about whales. Here are these creatures, beautifully adapted and thriving in the ocean yet still needing air to breathe. It's like they live in the ocean but they aren't really of the ocean. They need to surface, even if it's dangerous or difficult to do so. They need that breath to sustain them as they return to the depths.

Apparently, this is where my mind wanders when the pastor opens his sermon with the rhetorical question, "Why do you come to church each Sunday?"

Test Day

The clock reads nine P.M. but I'd swear it was midnight.
I don't feel nauseous anymore, so that's good.
I'm sitting on the floor with my back against our new sofa.
Images flit across the television but I'm not really watching.
I've spent most of the day sitting yet I am exhausted.
Today was the day we took our son to the clinic.
Today was the day doctors looked closely at his heart and body.
Today was the day we found out whether he was hiding an illness.
Being at the clinic transported me back twenty years.
When a different son was having his heart looked at.
When every test seemed to yield the most dire outcome.
Even though I told myself the situations were very different,
I've been conditioned to expect the worst.
In the waiting room, I watched parents with their baby.
I remember being them.
Brave faces, tight smiles.
Trying hard to ignore how terrified you feel inside.
And now I'm back and I am them again.
But today was different.
Today the tests returned favorable results.
Our son is healthy.
I think I should feel happier,
But I only have room for one emotion right now,
Relief.