Now and then...

"How did it get late so soon?"
- Theodor Seuss Geise (Dr. Suess)

The photographs were attached in the email from John. 

The note said, “Ted, Your blog came just as I found these - another reminder of the "better" parts of our lives.”  He had come across them somewhere in his files.

1969…

With Vietnam looming on the horizon, Dave, Mike and I visited John in Ottawa.   He took us to the houses of Parliament and we actually bumped in to the Prime Minister at the time – Pierre Elliot Trudeau – who took a few minutes to chat with us about our impending Southeast Asian adventure.  One Royal Canadian Mounted Police escort was all he had…it was a different day!

We drove from Ottawa to Muskoka for a few days and on a sunny Sunday morning had our picture taken standing on the dock in front of the Lake Joseph Community Church.  People came by boat or car to hear ministers of different faiths preach...my father loved taking his turn in the pulpit.  In the coming days, John (on the far right) would return to Ottawa and we…well, we would head so far west, we would end up in Southeast Asia.

On an evening that year, John or someone shot a photograph of the Dreisinger kids “…sitting on the [family] dock of the bay…” on the shores of Lake Joe.  My eye caught the camera, the girls looking away as though something in the water had drawn their eye.  I wore my military fatigue jacket, Anne my university athletic letter sweater and Nancy…Nancy had a wistful smile that generally gave me the impression she ‘knew’ things…things the rest of us just didn’t get.  I was 21, Anne 23 and Nancy 19.  We wondered if this might be our last time together.

2013…

It’s curious as I look at those young people who had so much in front of them…so many doors to open…so much promise yet unfulfilled.  In many ways I resonate with them even today.  I mean, when I am sitting quietly or writing or reading or thinking or really doing anything that does not require a significant physical challenge, I do not feel any older than the fresh and innocent faces in those faded photographs.

I realize, of course that I am older…little more than a quick glance in the mirror tells that story, BUT inside…inside I feel as I have always felt…inside I have the same curiosities, the same desire for the certainty of knowing…knowing and understanding my place.

Then, I thought people in their 60s were ancient.  Now, I am uncertain what being in one’s 60s even means.  Now I am uncertain that time has any meaning at all.  By now much of the story has been written.  I survived the war and made my way through life to the keyboard of this computer as I write.  Anne dumped that letter sweater and followed the passion of her life…music.  Nancy?  Well she never lost that wistful smile, and in fact as the years went by, it was clear she did know things the rest of us didn’t get, and while she has left us sooner than any of us could have dreamed, she taught me much indeed.

Between then and now a lot has happened and yet when I look at that photograph of the three of us, I feel the slipstream of time has brought me to this moment in an instant…a “…twinkling of an eye…” and that in fact from then to now there has been in a real sense – no time.  When I look at that photograph I feel a sense of wonder at who those people really were.  When I look at that photograph, I feel the same sense of adventure lying in front of me now that I felt then.

It is what lies ahead isn't it? I can’t wait to see what the day brings…

- ted

Nothing is easy...

“When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here's what she said to me.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera”

Livingston, J., Evans, R., lyrics and music

Doris Day, singer

She had on a black baseball hat, a black tee shirt and was wearing a dark apron. 

It had been a long week.  The grant was due on Thursday…due in the offices of the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid by 3:00PM (15.00) – not a minute later.  Writing grants is somewhat of a cottage industry in this country.  There are people who make a living doing nothing but writing them or editing them or advising people that do write them.  A lot of people make their livelihood on ‘soft money’ (meaning funding sources other than direct salary)…for them the stakes are high.

She was working the grill in the back…it was hot and she was breaking a sweat.

Our team had none of that.  We were writing on our own.  I had been on grant teams before when I was an academic, in what seems like a different century…Wait!!! It was a different century!  At any rate, as a junior investigator, I had worked on a grant application or two.  So, while it had been some time, the process was not completely new.

There were two grants, one for which I wrote content (a group out of New Orleans) and the other I was quarterback (written locally) - encouraging everyone who ‘knew the business’ to write his or her part.  I contributed a small amount of content on this one, but more than anything I was the cheerleader.  It was a big deal as we were asking for a little over two million dollars.  We made the deadline with a couple of hours to spare, everyone pulling together in the end as we sprinted toward the finish line.

I watched her for a few minutes.  She never took her eyes off the grill.

When I got the word the grant had been submitted, accepted and validated, I breathed a small prayer…we were done!  Now it was out of the bubble and back to the reality of other things to do.  Errands left undone…laundry and dishes (Molly was in Tucson working on our new home).  First, however, I took an hour’s break and went for a swim.

By dinnertime I wandered over to one of our favorite little places to grab some fish tacos - the sun, by now, beginning to tuck itself away into the western horizon and I was tired.  As I ordered I saw her in the kitchen.

She looked exhausted, but she just stayed focused.

We had something in common that grill lady and me…we were fairly close to the same age. 

As I saw her working away, I wondered what in her life had led her to this place, at this age, working for little more than minimum wage.  She worked hard every day…there was no discretionary time at the end when the grant was submitted.  Her ‘grant’ writing never finished.  She was like Sisyphus…arriving at work she pushed the rock up the mountain, and every night it fell to the bottom…the next day she put on her apron, took over that grill and pushed the rock again.  Dinner didn’t sit so well in my stomach that evening.

I knew I would drive home and sleep in a bed more comfortable than that of any Emperors of the Roman or Ottoman Turk or Greek Empires.  I would take some time to read and think and meditate and appreciate all of the things I have been given.  For truly my life has been and is…

                Privileged – beyond measure. 

                Fortunate – of no doubt

                Loved – more than I deserve.

From there to here...

I have done many things on this journey from factory work to radio broadcasting to teaching to working behind a damn hot grill cooking food for folks with more leisure time or discretionary income than I.  While all of that provided me much life experience, for which I am grateful, I am not doing those things now and I am uncertain that I could. 

What about her...

I am certain when she was a little girl, she had aspirations of what she might become…I am certain she saw some sort of future, you know, the way most children do.  Of all those things, however, I am equally certain that frying chicken and beef in a taco shop in her late 50s or early 60s was NOT one of them.  Yet there she was…somebody’s wife or grandmother...perhaps widowed or simply down on her luck barely getting by, working behind a hot grill and knowing – the hard part for me – knowing tomorrow for her would NOT be a better day…

I didn’t leave my heart in San Francisco…it was in a taco shop on the corner of Zion and Mission Gorge roads in San Diego, California…

- ted

It's about the heart...

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day

live in a nation where they will not be judged

by the color of their skin but by the

content of their character.”

King, ML - I have a dream…

It is easy to talk about people for whom we have affection.  It is interesting the way it plays out...we seldom talk about their height, weight, color of eyes, but rather about the things that make us feel good in the way they touch us.

I have written before about my friend Joanna…she is special, and thoughtful and smart and…well, so many things could be said.  She ‘is’ a part of our small family…an ‘adopted daughter’ really.  Talking (writing) about her, however, doesn’t really give a sense of her essence.  I wanted a little more...to let her express a little of her mind with yours, so that you might have a sense of the thoughtfulness of this remarkable young woman. I asked her if I might share this...

The cycle started…

The presidential race had just begun.  Most of the horses had declared their candidacy.  Barack Obama was 'in the game,' when I received this from my friend Joanna.  Neither of us would know how the following years would continue to be blessed with one another’s company.

The email was pleasant and contained this attachment.

"I'm here because of Ashley."

Barack, at the end of his speech, tells the story of a 23-year old woman, Ashley in South Carolina at a round table discussion, who as a child, convinced her cancer stricken mother—who lost her job, health care, and semblance for financial security—that all she wanted most in the world was to eat a mustard and relish sandwich.  She did this for an entire year until her mother got better.  She was nine years old.  The young woman worked relentlessly for the Obama campaign, organizing African-American supporters since the beginning in Florence, South Caroline so that she could “help the millions of other children in the country who want and need to help their parents too.”  And that indeed is a noble cause.  But there was an old man, a black man, at the same discussion, who found himself last on the list of people to share their story that night.  Everyone had a unique story, like Ashley; some were circumstance specific, and others were more general feelings and beliefs.  But this man, this old black man, said that his reason for being there was because of this young white woman, it was because of Ashley.

Yesterday, my pastor employed me to come up with discussion topics from Barack’s speech, as he plans to show it to all those interested at church this upcoming Saturday.  I have watched the speech in its entirety two times, and read it thoroughly.  Each time I go back to it, I find something new within the stories that he tells, and the truths that he fearlessly addresses.  But this story of Ashley and the old black man speaks in such volumes.  It is more than just a story of a young white girl, and an old black man, it is the story of how that actions of one can affect so many, it is the story of how in spite of social conditioning, one woman refused to limit her experiences by the color of the skin, it is the story about how a man, who has been touched and whose life has been changed by someone who, in outward appearance was the least likely candidate, but in spirit the most desired participant.  It is, in its greatness, and in its simplicity, the story of a white American in the sixth decade of his life and a young black woman from the inner city who is just trying to find her way.  It is the story of Joanna and Ted.

As simple as those names are, it is the inability to express the experience in words that make it all the more cherished.  It poses the question about how something so seemingly awkward, unusual and incomprehensible, can be the essence of what is so simple, pure, and needed in this country.  This is not the first time I have read something that has made me feel this way, because Tuesday’s With Morrie sparked this thought, but at the time, my inability to fully process it filed it away until it was finished.  But reading the story of Ashley, and this old black man in Florence, South Carolina touched me in a place that only another’s spirit can reach. 

Although, we have known each other for such a short time, that time seems as a constricting characteristic of the connection that has been developed.  So, my dear friend, because I am getting a little emotional, I will conclude with this final thought: Who would have ever thought that the least likely bond would be one of my greatest and most cherished assets?  My mind before this point could have never conceived how Saturday mornings on the corner of Crooks and Big Beaver, in front of half an egg and bacon Panini, with a regular cup of coffee and hot raspberry tea, for two hours could mean so much.  Who would have thought Joanna and Ted?

My Affections,

Joanna C. Cooper”

What more could I write on this day…indeed, what more…

- ted

A different dance...

We listen, but can we hear?

We see, but do we understand?

– Anonymous

As the film draws to an end, Eli has made his way across the country carrying the book.  I had seen the film before...it is violent, and the purpose for all of the mayhem seemed somewhat obscure.  He arrives at Alcatraz in a small boat, and after clearing security in this post-apocalyptic world; he is ushered into a room. 

Eli says he has the book and asks the man to bring paper…a lot of paper.  He then instructs him to be sure to write the words exactly as he says them, and he begins,

“Verse one - In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.”

“Verse two - And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.”

“Verse three - And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.”

The “Book of Eli” – the film’s title – is really the Book IN Eli, for his task is to recite the Bible he has memorized so that it may be restored once again to a world that has lost its great literature.

Familiarity…

I have known these words for decades…they are wrapped deeply and intimately around the neurochemistry of my mind.  They are profound and rich and mysterious and elusive and beyond any real understanding.  These expressive words writers were inspired to record – or were inspired to speak – provide a sense of connection when we are unable to wrap our minds around the reality of the unknown…around the “…thick darkness…” – As Thomas Aquinas says, the things beyond our understanding we call God.

Hearing these familiar words, however, through the weary voice of Denzel Washington’s character Eli, found a spot inside that was so intimate; I am unable to find the words to describe.  They were spoken slowly, softly, caressed by the fertility of a gift honed over decades to impart feeling to the listener.  The actor taking text, mixing it in some sort of secret spiritual sauce and sending them in a way that connected with ‘me’…you know the little creature that looks out at the world through television cameras we call eyes, and picks up sounds through those intricate stereophonic microphones we call ears…the ‘me!’ – the ‘all of us.’  For some…surely not all…when those words arrive, they bring a sense of comfort and belonging.  I had taken a break from a project and was flipping through the channels when they came for me…when they came for me.

Mystery of the ‘what is’…

It is a marvelous thing when something so basic as the vibrating of air at certain frequencies can find places inside of us that we, left to our own devices, could never find on our own.  No man is an island?  Well, that’s not right…every man is an island…an island that needs to bridge the gap with other islands.  A dance can only really have meaning when two move together as one – finding unity in rhythm and rhyme.  Certainly one can dance alone, but there is something about the conversation of two, by whatever means it happens, that transcends the monologue of being alone.

This, of course, is the aim of all spiritual teachings…the journey to ‘find our place’ in a world that seems, in many ways, ‘place – less.’  While for many, it is difficult enough to find a partner with which to dance in our busy day-to-day lives – how many really deep and rich friends does each of us have? 

Finding a way to dance with the Creator of the universe?  Well, that is a different kettle of fish, and yet we are a part of this universe and we do have some level of intelligence…aren’t we?  Don’t we?

Maybe this is why prophets and seers and other “…strangers and pilgrims…” on the earth – those who have found a connection – are driven to share.  Maybe this is why so many of us yearn to feel meaning in relation to the greater unknown…desire to transcend our day to day lives through the promise of a better day or better days…the hunger to break the surface of the water for a truly lung full of fresh and life giving air.

A little context…

As a youngster, I was brought up in the tradition of Christian thought through the scripture.  It came to me in a loving, nonjudgmental home where ‘lives lived’ overshadowed ‘words spoken.’  The words simply provided structure…a recipe so to speak…for the examples put before me by two faithful and caring spiritual guardians.  When the words, however, were spoken or read, I found them compelling in rhythm and tone.

Over the years, I have found myself drawn toward spiritual thought of all cloaks and colors – eastern…western…new age – curious as to what people have thought or think concerning the ‘whys’ of life.  I love to read what these special people have to say…how they see their journey; better said, how they see...how they find ‘meaning - place’ in a world into which we have all been thrust.  After all, none of us asked to show up, and yet here we are, aren’t we?

Bumps and curves…

Some of the things I have explored are complicated indeed, full of vocabularies that need to be learned long before any understanding emerges.  Grasping ideas often takes decades, and in the end for many, the promise of freedom turns dull and shapeless.

And then unexpectedly, simple words spoken through an actor in a film come with a towering richness that reminded me yet once again, of the power of simple and direct words…simple in structure…immeasurable in magnitude. 

In the beginning for all of us, a creation needs to take place.  The earth of our minds is without form…it is void.  And yet the spirit of God – the creative intelligence of the universe of which we are a conscious integrated part – moves upon the life force within each of us…drawing us forward through curiosity and a hunger to survive – the creative intelligence of the universe speaks to us through an instinct to survive, and gives us light…a beacon just past the horizon toward which, in whatever manner, we find ourselves compelled.

As I heard those words, in that unexpected moment, in the middle of my working day, I was reminded why I come back again and again to the scripture in which I was raised…to the words from which I have found comfort…to the dance partner within that is always looking for ways to commune with me in a primal rhythm that has always been.  The music began; it was familiar, and in those brief and fleeting moments, I was complete.

- ted