Small events - big rewards...

What is great in man is that he is

a bridge and not a goal.”

– Friedrich Nietzshe

I was a little nervous because it was my first time and it was happening so quickly.

The weekend in Chicago was for a board meeting of an organization to which I belong. I had just boarded the flight and sat down when the text came. “You need to download the Uber App before you get to Chicago, it’s less than half the cab fare.”

I have heard of this car service and have friends that use it regularly. Even the guy from whom I get occasional massages drives for this car service in his spare time.

I started the download, and it was coming slowly. By the time all the passengers had boarded, it was only three-quarters done. I thought to myself, I’m going to leave my phone on until we reach the active runway. If I don’t have the full app by that time, I’ll put the phone on flight mode.

Amazingly, just as the plane in front of us began its roll down the runway, the app finished loading. Yeah, I get it. I pushed the envelope, but it was a ‘venial sin,' not qualifying me for eternal damnation.

By the time I got to Chicago and picked up my luggage, it was time to try this thing out. I have always been a little anxious every time I have tried anything new. Large or small, it is the unknown that pushes the breath a little faster and elevates the heart rate. That notwithstanding, firing up the app, I plunged right in!

The app already knew where I was as it showed a pin stuck in a map of Chicago O’hare Airport. There was a place to put my destination. I sent out the signal, and within two minutes I got a confirmation from Kristi. The ID had her picture, a description of the car and license number.

I met her at the departure area of the airport. Uncertain she would know who I was, I called and described myself. In a few short minutes, she showed up and whisked me away in her late model robin-egg-blue Kia. Kristi was a sandy-haired, pleasant-voiced gal in her early thirties. It was clear that she was not calorie deprived, and had a pleasant voice.

I like to talk to taxi drivers when I travel. My friend Uffe and I both do this and enjoy sharing our stories of our adventures with one another. I wondered whether Kristi would be comfortable chatting it up with a man she didn’t know. I should not have been worried. Before long we were chatting like a couple of magpies. Before I hopped out of her car thirty minutes later, I felt like an old friend.

Kristi had done a couple of years of college when her 81 year-year-old grandmother fell and broke her ankle leading to a hospital admission. The woman had been a diabetic her entire life and managed it well. In the Hospital, she acquired a MRSA infection. Soon after returning home, she slipped into dementia, leading Kristi to voluntarily withdraw from school to take care of her. "She lived for five more years, but it was kinda sad to see her end like this,” she said.

There were many more stories about her family, recovering addict husband (clean for seven years), her two-year-old daughter and the adventures of being an Uber driver in Chicago, the city where she had lived her entire life.

The thing is, this young woman had every reason to see her life as a journey that had been unfair to her. That was not the case. She was articulate, joyful, forward-looking and seemed to genuinely enjoy driving her car all over the Windy City.

The meetings went through the weekend, ending Monday night.

By now I was an old hand at Uber. Yep, I was ready to see what the Tuesday morning drive to the airport would bring.

It brought William in a black Chrysler and a license plate that read ‘Skeeta.' He was a mid-sixties, African American. I asked if I could sit in the front seat with him to which he said, "Yeah man, climb in."

While the majority of people I interact with are fun to talk to, there are some so memorable that I have carried in my heart for many years. William was one of those home run hitting, touchdown scoring, high jump winning fellows!

William was a semi-retired professional photographer who specialized in taking pictures of children in day care centers. As it turned out, both of our fathers were ministers (Baptist, me – Methodist, him). We traded stories that only preacher's kids could appreciate and understand. There was a lot of laughter and comments about the similarities of our lives. 

William's wife is a middle-school psychologist. This led me a discussion of education in the Chicago public school system. He felt it was basically warehousing children...most time spent disciplining and teaching for standardized tests, rather than educating. "My wife sometimes comes home in tears, because she can't stand that the kids are managed, not taught. I tell her she has got to find a way to let it go, but man it's tough on her."

There was more, but before we knew it, we were at the airport.  "Man, I wish you could ride around with me all day," he said. I replied genuinely, "Yeah me too. This went too fast."

I got out of the car on my side and him on his. I pulled my bags out and did something I have never done before. We shook hands, and I hugged him. No that's not right, we hugged each other. His parting shot was, "I am gonna remember this for a long time."

Me too, man, me too….

- ted

Got to admit it’s getting better…

“Our greatest glory is not in never failing,

but rising up every time we fall.”

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

It’s been two weeks now, and the worst of the withdrawal is over. I still find myself reaching, but am in better control now.

I’m confessing this, because confession is good for the soul, AND the more I keep the battle in front of me, the better my chances are of a full recovery. I fully admit that I may never recover, but I feel it will not be long before I will be as free as possible from this addiction.

There, I said it – addiction.

When this all started and Donald Trump announced his candidacy for President of the United States, I was amused and thought smugly to myself, Well, a little entertainment in the election cycle, no matter how weirdly curious it might be, should be fun – short lived, but fun.

Being a fiscal conservative and a social left leaner, I watched the Republican Debates with an “I cannot look away from the screen at this impending train wreck.”

By any account, it was a compelling theater of the absurd…surreal, to the point of complete disbelief. To my amazement, even the most ambitious, calculating, callous and hubris filled politicians, found themselves taken to a level of civil discourse that plunged into sophomoric rhetoric with the speed of an earthbound meteor. 

As each week went by, this prince of farce sucked so much oxygen out of the air, it was difficult to breathe. Listening to the daily release of vacuous streams of consciousness began making me feel claustrophobic. I didn’t realize I was being sucked in. I kept thinking I could handle this.

As it turns out I couldn’t. I found I had become addicted to political news. Keeping up with Mr. Trump was no problem whatsoever. The media, never more openly exposed themselves as bottom feeding, bottom line driven organizations, clutching this goldmine of spectacularly profitable entertainment.

News? Nah, the Trump-train, was money in the bank. They were using him – or was he using them?  No doubt, they gave this 'empty suit' millions of dollars of free advertising as he spent months insulting and roasting nearly everything that we have tried to teach our children America stands for. This entertainer knows, the key to commercial success is to appeal to the lowest common denominator. At this, he is a master.

Here is the confession and my personal struggle.

As the political season progressed, I found myself mesmerized by a living oxymoron of a man. He was as compelling as Archie Bunker of “All in the Family,” a pioneer in disrespectful burlesque. I found myself drawn to television, print and internet news/video just to see if I could become any more incredulous that this fellow might – and I say might – survive the primaries and emerge as the candidate of his party.

By now, he is the candidate of the Republican Party. I had become so emerged in a life of suspended disbelief, I was spending significant portions of my day watching and waiting for a megalomaniac crash and burn like the Hindenburg.

What I didn’t notice were the toxic feelings that were building in me. Like any addiction, I needed more exposure, more to see, more crevices of the landscape to explore, hoping against hope I would find some satisfaction in the demise of his poisonous discourse. The more I watched, listened and read, the worse I felt – the debasing conversation seeping into my soul.

A couple of weeks ago, after being away from my media fix a couple of days, I found myself having an almost physical urge to get back to the computer, load up my browser and catch up on what had become a routine of Fox News, CNN, Huffington Post, New York Times and Politico. When that wasn’t enough, I would go to British and Canadian news outlets just to see if there was anything new. I found myself needing to feel more animus and disgust.

When I realized it had come to this, I made the decision to go cold turkey! I was NOT going to look at anything political. I stopped watching the evening news and in the mornings when I fired up the computer, repeated to myself, You don’t need this. You are better than this. Think calming thoughts. Focus on your work.

In the beginning, I found my mind hungering for the ‘fix.’ I found myself unconsciously typing ‘Fox N…’ into my URL. There was more than once, I was extremely close to the abyss.

I have been clean now for more than fourteen days, I believe the worst is over. I’m confident I will get through the next few weeks, feeling better with each passing day.

This ‘professional wrestling’ election cycle has been an astonishing expression of just how willing some people are, through narcissistic need, to say anything to win. Machiavelli might even scratch his head. He would say, “Look like a good guy, but don’t be one.” Good guys don’t succeed. Moral Compasses? For losers! Mr. Trump hasn’t even made an attempt to look like a good guy.

In a few weeks, I will vote. I look forward to that simple and sacred act, to bring closure to this incredulous election where I allowed myself to be seduced.

What comes next? We will all have to wait to see. Whatever emerges, I will do my best to behave based on rational thought and try to avoid sinking into the collective quagmire of social and political mediocrity.

- ted

Moments of reflection...redux

“Realize deeply that the present moment is all you have.

Make the NOW the primary focus of your life.”

- Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now

The temperature had warmed to 32 degrees (0C) on that cold winter's day in New York City.  Ten degrees (-12C) the night before, we prepared to layer clothing as much as we could – we didn't need as much as we had anticipated.

The journey began with a shuttle to Newark Airport, then the Number 62 bus to Penn Station where we picked up the Port Authority Trans-Hudson (PATH) train for our destination on Manhattan Island.  The trip took nearly an hour and a half with the time passing quickly, filled with small talk to cover an undercurrent of somber anticipation.

At the end of the line, we exited the station riding a long escalator from the underground train, embracing the cold winter’s air. Out the exit and to our left, we walked around the extremely tall building coming to the place for which we had made this journey:

Ground Zero of the World Trade Center.

“Ground Zero,” a term used to describe a point on the earth’s surface closest to the detonation of an explosion.  On this day, as it turned out, it was both geographic and soulful – the physical site and our hearts…

In Memoriam…

The memorial fountains – one for each of the destroyed towers – and subterranean museum sites were framed on three sides by Vesey, Liberty, and Church streets…the West Side Highway ‘closed the box'…

As we approached the first of the two deeply set fountains, an eerie feeling seeped through my skin…a feeling not easy to describe, a ‘presence' really…a ‘knowing'…a disconcerting sensation, communicating the inexpressible magnitude this place had played in our lives and our history.

It wasn’t the first time an awareness of ‘other presence’ had pressed on my spirit. It happened at Dealy Plaza, in the West End District of Dallas where a young American President was assassinated….Auschwitz-Birkenau where the showers of death and work camps of the ‘living dead’ still resonate in the air…

There is no way to equate these events; it was simply the common denominator of holy sobriety covering my soul that I found so unsettling.

Here, once again the cloak of discomfort and the overwhelming sense of loss oozed through my clothing, both fabric, and spiritual, unbalancing the chemistry in my mind.

We gazed into the pit of the fountains around which names of those lost in the North Tower were engraved, the water at the bottom of this dark cube fell into a smaller and darker cube in its center…lives lost…slipping out of sight…into the abyss…

Hold your mind…do not slip too far into a bottomless pit of thought. I told myself.

The Museum…

We had the time and so purchased tickets for the museum…the intimate memorial…the place in which threads of the end of the lives of real people who had breathed and loved and struggled and failed and succeeded – everyday lives – were woven into an experiential tapestry that will no doubt echo and reverberate and resound in the coming months and years until my breath, like theirs, is finished.

Photo after photo of folks with expressions of disbelief and shock lined the entryway just inside the entrance. A diverse, yet common look amongst the faces of every race and creed – hands over mouths or on foreheads, trying to make sense of the paper and debris floating through the air to the street below like celebratory confetti. There was no celebration here.

People had simply been going on about their days with the freedom this country provides.

The event was unthinkable!

To the deep...

The long escalator into the cavernous main museum lay beside a set of stairs used by some who escaped the unfolding apocalypse – that physically "…escaped the unfolding apocalypse."  For of little doubt they did not escape leviathan who buried his fearfully long and poisonous talons deeply into their minds that fateful day.

There were so many things in this tomb of memories…fire trucks and ambulances that had been mangled and bent…enormous girders warped and twisted like pieces of taffy…parts of cars and bicycles and shoes worn.

Along the walls of commemoration were video clips chronicling the unbelievable series of events…television programs and newscasts interrupted,

“In New York City Today, we are getting reports that an

airplane has just crashed into one of the Twin Towers.”

“Wait just a minute General, we have actual footage of

the airplane crashing into the North Tower!” Cut to video…

“Alice, this is John,” the unknown voice said.  “An airplane

has just crashed into the other tower.  It’s…it’s…well, it’s

just horrible. We’re okay in this tower, I’ll call you later, bye.”

Of course, John was not okay and the return call to Alice never came.

On the walls were quotes from those who had lost loved ones. The most poignant to me:

“I wished the day would never end, because that day began

with Alan alive, and I wanted to stay in the day he had life.”

So much to see…

Animated flight patterns and timelines of the hijackings appeared on walls mesmerizing those watching. There were the histories and flight patterns of the dozen or more flights the hijacker’s had taken as they studied the habits of flight attendants and pilots. Months of practice runs had gone into the preparation…all of which was chilling.

In the days following the attack and collapse of the towers, hand made pictures were posted all over the city with variances of these messages - hoping against hope:

“Has anyone seen this man (woman)?  If so, please contact___”

“William ____, my father did not come home.  If you know

anything about him, please call ______”

That day while people ran from those buildings, police and firefighters ran into them. They did everything in their power to help people escape the ever increasing inferno above.  More than four hundred of these public servants, heroes really, died helping others as the buildings collapsed on top of them.

What can be said, really?

This place struck reverence into my heart. It is in moments like this, that one’s vocabulary fails to provide anything meaningful to express the magnitude of sobriety and feelings.

There are so many things that are still unfolding in my mind, I am uncertain what to say.

Perhaps I can say this.

Every week, I GET to write whatever I like as I carry on my life, and put it up for public view. Whatever the reader feels about the things I say, I am secure that the ‘thought police' will not knock on my door to take me away.

I am grateful for this, because I understand I only have this moment to think about things I would like to say… this moment to write these thoughts…this moment to appreciate that the unexpected future rushing toward me at light speed, may bring with it...the unknown…the unthinkab….

- ted

The unexpected is often the best...

“You have to take risks. We will only

understand the miracle of life

fully when we allow the

unexpected to happen.”

– Paulo Coelho

It was still mostly dark when we slipped into the backyard to greet the morning.  Daytime temperatures still wander into the high 90s and low 100s, this morning was 72 degrees.  In the still desert air, this brings a chill.

Hannah, one of our three geriatric cats, had already been outside once, poking around the backyard to make sure all was clear. Her first run in the morning had the appearance of a night watchman making his rounds, checking the locks on doors. In her case, it was checking for lizards or other small creatures.  When she felt it was ‘safe,’ she headed in for breakfast, only to return in the full daylight to be sure she missed nothing.

Joanna is visiting with us again. We took our place in the dark, feet up, to watch the sun come and to supervise Hannah’s work. Over the years Joanna has become our unofficially adopted daughter. When she is ‘home,’ it is like she actually lives with us.  We sat in the cool desert air, our quiet voices the only recognizable continuity to the blackness of the morning. Everything around us cloaked in a shroud masking its presence.

The stars were brilliant in the early morning sky, standing as sentinels against the unrelenting approach of daylight. They seemed bold and firm in the heavens, only to be overwhelmed by the breaking of a new dawn. As they faded in the morning light, everything around us began to take shape.

In a short few minutes, the sun poked its head over the ridges of the Catalina Mountains to the east painting the Cacti and Desert Spoons and Agave with shades of pastel greens. Since it is monsoon season, many of the cacti are blooming, and a wear brightly colored flowers on their tops like a group of high fashion women attending an important social event…the variety and richness of hues and shades unappreciated without the light of day.

You never know, and maybe you shouldn’t…

Joanna and I began a habit of early morning meetings at an Einstein’s Coffee shop on the Northwest corner of West Big Beaver and Crooks in Troy, Michigan over a decade ago. 

There was another darkness, however, that overshadowed our meetings in those days. It was the darkness of unfamiliarity. She and I were cloaked in shrouds of gender, age, culture and race…the unknown of who we were. We drank tea (her) and coffee (me), working on life topics. At least that is what we thought.

In the darkness of our morning skies, life and business topics were the sentinels that guarded our relationship. They were the objects that had brought purpose to our meetings.

Then something started to happen in the desert of our minds. The sun began to rise, and although the topics continued, they began to be painted over by a realization of the beauty of a different dawning day.  The pastels of our personalities emerged, and as the rains came to water the fertile earth of our minds, we started noticing the beauty and richness of color emerging from the spirit within each of us.

We had thought we were meeting to talk about moving forward in life. That did happen. What we found, however, was something much more meaningful than that. We found each other.

She would write later of the unlikely nature of our relationship…this strange friendship between a sixty-year-old white man and young African American woman. An implausible relationship growing from two strangers meeting in a coffee-shop in Michigan.  By now Molly was in the mix. It became something special and the three of us knew it.

Molly and I left Troy in 2008 for San Diego, but Joanna came right along with us – in our hearts. She also came west a number of times during those years, most notably the weekend my younger sister died in Missouri. She stayed on with Molly providing love and support.

The story of our friendship gets better. Joanna did get a job as a junior buyer with a truck manufacturing company in Detroit.  She did so well that she was offered a job in Stuttgart, Germany with the parent company, Mercedes-Benz. She took that position, and the two of us met a time or two when I was in Europe on business. Three years there led to a promotion as a project manager back in Detroit, with a subsequent promotion in production operations.

“Joanna is visiting with us again. We took our place in the dark, feet up, to watch the sun come…,"and we are grateful….grateful for the love, and the brightly colored threads that bring splendor to the tapestry of our lives.

She’ll be gone in the morning, but the pleasant afterglow of her visit will linger as we carry one another in our hearts and minds….

- ted