If you love 'em...

“We can live without religion and meditation, but 

we cannot survive without human affection.”

- Dali Lama

Early mornings are a good time to read. It gets the day going and beats the morning news. Adam Grant's Think Again stimulated an email to an old friend. 

My note closed with this, “I have loved and appreciated you for many years and for many reasons, but during this morning’s read…even more!”

His unexpected response:

“Your email to me was something very special.  Most guys, especially guys that have been to war like us, are too macho to be sensitive, to show affection to other men.  But you plowed right through that unwritten law and it really touched me….”

Let’s back this up…

Let’s talk a little about love – the context here.

We often get caught up in vocabulary because it’s all we know to express feelings to one another. When I was younger, vocabulary words were the alphabet – the precursor for finding meaningful ways to communicate.

Since I had no understanding of how to express feelings of affection outside my immediate family (a little more on that coming), words and definitions were the only way I knew. 

As a young person, I understood there were different shades and textures to the meaning of love but Idea needed exploration. First stop, a dictionary, the all-knowing residence of words.

I discovered that loving my family was reflected by the Greek word ‘storge.’ That was good to know. Church people talked about a broader kind of love for mankind – agape. I could see that. I was getting somewhere.

There were more Greek words:

• Phila (deep friendship), 
• Philauta (self-love), 
• Ludus (playful love), 
• Eros (passionate love)

Holy cow!! I discovered the partial list above was just the beginning of my journey to understanding this thing called love. Thank goodness for those Greeks. I mean, how else would we know about love in our language!! 

Let’s see, my best friend in high school. Yep, that was Phila. My girlfriend…hmm – eros with a touch of Ludus maybe. But then I was hoping for Phila with her as well - sadly unrequited. Coming from a home with a deep social conscience, the emphasis was, of course, agape. 

To be fair, I never said to my best friend that our relationship was founded on Phila. And it would have been embarrassing to tell my girlfriend that eros was the basis of our relationship. It was hard enough to keep these words and their definitions straight. Over time they seemed to shape-shift and blend from one to the other. Yikes!

An informative aside…

I was fortunate to have had a maternal mentor who taught me to love myself and other people. 

She would say, "If it's true that you should love your neighbor as yourself, then you need to love yourself." I suppose the Greeks would have called that Philautia (self-love). This was not self-absorptive narcissism but rather an appreciation for the gift of life. She didn't need to give me a definition. The words from her mouth to my ear were enough to seal the belief in my mind. To me, truth, plain and simple. The result? I genuinely love myself!

Over the years, I have asked people in workshops, “If you ask me for five dollars and I don’t have it. Can I give it to you?” Strangely, they often think it’s a trick question.

Continuing the thought, I say, “If I have three dollars, I can give you that, but I can't give what I don't have.” 

Loving our neighbor as ourselves implies we must love ourselves! Loving ourselves, my mother would have suggested, is the full five dollars! 

Moving on…

Over time, it became clear no vocabulary was good enough to express these different layers of affection. I learned love could be a smile to a stranger, a quiet conversation of support, a knowing look, a subtle touch, or an intimate sexual experience. These feelings or experiences were not exclusive, nor independent of one another. They were a continuum reflecting the resonance I felt with the people in my life. The key was learning to know what was suitable and when. 

Like everything, good sailors come from navigating stormy seas.  I’ve made a fair number of mistakes telling folks I loved them and then unwisely trying to push the wet noodle uphill. This usually happened because I wasn’t listening or paying attention. 

Trust and understanding take time and sensitivity. Unfortunately, gun-jumping can create an environment that sometimes never recovers. That is disappointing.

We all receive words and feelings based on the worlds within which each of us lives. There is a difference between saying I love you and I am in love with you. I’ve frequently been apt to say the former, seldom the latter.  Some difficult lessons were learned when the expression of affection was not given nor taken with a shared spirit of understanding. 

This was often the case with the men I have known in my life. Maybe it's a reflection of the discomfort many men have ("...too macho...") expressing affection to one another. Most show their feelings through comradeship like hunting, athletic events, recalling stories of valor or embarrassment, and teasing. Good-natured bantering usually happens between close friends and is, in my experience, always a way of saying, I love you. And that is usually good enough!

Love within our species is a way of projecting safety and comfort. Each of us craves that feeling. I suppose that’s why it is so deeply embedded in our humanity and why we feel vulnerable in expressing it for fear of rejection.  Telling someone you love them, at whatever level on the scale of resonance, should not be a threat or a sign of weakness - rather, it should be a sign of strength.

The closing note to my friend came from a brain-to-fingers in a slipstream of unconsciousness. It was an expression of deep gratitude for having had him a part of my life for so many years. It was as natural as breathing.

Thanks, mum!

- ted

Flipping out...

“Continuous improvement is better 

than delayed perfection…”

- Mark Twain

Life gets simple when things go haywire in your body - accidents, illness, unexpected events that take you down. When this happens, everything slips away, and the focus settles squarely on getting better.

I knew I wasn’t going to die, but it was all I could do to get home and lie down. Tucking in, I lay motionless like a stone on a riverbank – a dead weight waiting for the wind and rain to wear me away, returning me to the elements from whence I came. The nausea was so bad, death might have been welcome…miserable would be understating!

The day arrived…

Friday was busy. In the morning, I met face to face with my department chair. It was the first time in a year. It was good but merely a temporary stop on my way to the afternoon. I had been thinking about Friday afternoon since confirming the lesson and, like a kid at Christmas, I could hardly wait!

I got to the pool early, and there she was. I waved and headed her way. She said she had a baby to teach, but we could get started as soon as the short session was over. 

Backing up a little…

After a COVID break, I've been in the pool for several months. It is Olympic size, fifty by twenty-five meters. On most days, the lanes cross the width of the pool to accommodate more swimmers. Because of the COVID, one-hour blocs of time had to be reserved. Armed with a center-head snorkel and goggles, the fifteen hundred meters I usually get are mindlessly relaxing. Water acts as a large body stocking and lying horizontally removes gravity's tug on blood returning to the heart. It's a win-win for all three of us – body, soul, and spirit!

Over the past few months, I noticed a woman giving swim lessons. She stood out because she was dressed neck to wrist and toe in black. I was curious because black is a substantial heat sink! In addition, she wore a wide-brimmed hat with a lot of zinc oxide protecting her face. In sum, it was hard not to notice her. Additionally, she appeared to be obliviously focused on her students.

Backing up a little more…

The pool events in this year’s Tokyo Olympic games were impressive. Maybe more so for me because I had been in the water for a while before they began. The performances were terrific to watch. But the swimmer's doing flip turns at the wall of each lap was mesmerizing – poetry in motion, a dance so smooth and pleasing, the tumble turns alone kept me glued to the screen.

A kernel of thought began to emerge in the back of my mind.

I wonder if I could learn to do that?

Kismet!!

Earlier in the week, after showering and getting back into my shorts and mask, I thought.

If that woman is still here and not teaching when I leave, I will approach her.

Leaving the locker room, there she was!

Striking up a conversation, I asked if she might be willing to teach me to do a flip turn. She said she could, but in her experience, it was difficult for older folks to learn but added, "I’m happy to give it a try."

We set a date for the coming Friday, and I was over the moon.

Friday afternoon arrived, and there she was. I swam a few warmup laps while she was with the baby, and then the lesson began.

“Let me demonstrate,” she said.  “The key is tucking your head, bringing your knees in, and driving with your arms forward to aid the rotation. Be sure to blow air out of your nose while turning so you don’t fill your sinuses with water.”

Great! Here we go!

I tucked my head, pulled my knees to my chest, blew air out of my nose, AND lo and behold!! I bobbed up and down like an apple in a tub of water - hmmm, that didn't work.

“Let’s try this, she said. “Push off the side of the pool, and then try it.”

Following her instruction, I got a partial flip. 

"Not bad, for the first time, she said. “Let's try again."

By the end of the ten or so trials, I could execute what passed as a flip. It was kind of thrilling. 

“Nice work,” she said.

This was step one. Approaching the wall, flipping, and pushing away was down the road, but this was a start! 

I thanked her as we got out of the pool and noticed my stomach was a little unsettled. It was just a touch, but when I stood up, I began to feel increasingly nauseated. This wasn't good. 

Getting to the locker room was challenging because it was getting worse. By the time I got to the car, I was uncertain whether I could get home. The ten-minute drive seemed like it took forever, and the nausea was not getting better but worse. Molly met me in the garage and helped me to the bedroom. By this time, the best I could do was get horizontal in the darkened room. Unlike the water, lying flat in bed was NOT edifying for my body, soul, or spirit! 

Fortunately, I was able to sleep, and within a couple of hours, began to feel a little better trying to process what had happened. It was then I realized it was the balance center of my inner ear. The flipping in the water had been disorienting, and small fluid-filled canals in my ear didn't like it one bit. Unfortunately, it never occurred to me to have done a little work to prepare them for the challenge. So, they reminded me that balance and spatial orientation were their business, not mine. They made me pay and it wasn't pretty! 

By Sunday, I felt normal enough to ride my bike with no balance problems. I decided that If I can't do this, I won't.  But a single trial was not enough to dampen my enthusiasm. 

Nelson Mandela once said, “Everything is impossible until you do it.”

We’ll see Mr. Mandela…we’ll see…

- ted

It was always about love...

“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood 

as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became 

a man (woman), I put away childish things…” 

1Co 13:11

Looking across the table over lunch, it was as if only a day had passed since being together. But, in fact, it had been years! She was in town for a few hours on her way to somewhere else.

That’s the thing about friendship, isn’t it? A timeless space where the only thing that matters is being together. I think one of the most basic human desires is to be in ‘no time’…‘a zone’ where nothing is measured…it just is. 

To be fair, we had Skyped sporadically…but in person? It had been nearly two decades. There is something about face-to-face that is powerful. The world slips away, and it takes on a life of its own for however long it lasts. This was it, and there we were! You know what I’m talking about.

There was another time we sat together. We were not alone then. A group of five or six youngsters was sitting on the floor in a semi-circle. The lesson was just finishing when a little hand shot up.

“Yes, Ashley. A question?”

In a small and halting voice, she said, “Uh, well, uh, I mean, uh, I thought we were going to talk about sex!”

I could barely contain a chuckle. When I recounted the story to her over lunch, we both laughed out loud!

This forty-one-year-old woman was six or seven at the time and in a very different space.

Then…

I was part of a spiritual community for three decades. It was a group of Bible teachers and students. It was not a fellowship of legalists accepting every word as literal truth, but rather one that believed the scripture was a guide for spiritual growth and enlightenment. 

Growing up in a family as a preacher’s son, I can't remember when I did not have an interest in the scriptures. My father read them around the table. My mother added substance and love telling Old and New Testament stories.

When I left my family’s harbor of spiritual safety, I found that religions were not the same as my experience. In broad brush strokes, the churches I attended fell into two categories…social gatherings, with a little scripture tossed in or lots of scripture that subtly increased guilt and shame in parishioners.

The former, while enjoyable, did not feed my spiritual hunger; the latter, steeped in carrot-stick teachings (be good or be punished), offended my sensibilities. It was refreshing to find a group that was serious about scripture study for the sake of understanding rather than control. A people who understood spiritual growth takes time and can’t be legislated.

What about sex?

I thought it might be a good idea to teach a sex education class to the church in those early years. Having done some health counseling within the congregation it became apparent that while spiritual understanding was substantial, the women and men knew little about their physical bodies. 

The elders agreed but didn’t want it to be an event that reinforced religious myths and taboos. If we were going to do this, it was to be open and honest. The good news was that we had some nurses and health educators within the organization. 

Off to the races…

A small group of us prepared the curriculum, and a teaching day was set aside. 

The adults were put in mixed-gender sessions with films, handouts, and hands-on anatomical models. For most, it was the first time they had ever heard open discussions about their bodies. 

The children got half a day. There were cartoon books with basic age-appropriate information. One of the models was a pregnant belly that could be opened to see the baby in the womb. The 'baby' could be taken out for the children to pass around and handle. They were fascinated and had lots of questions. How did the baby get out? What was it doing in there? Surprisingly they didn't have much interest in how it got there in the first place.

Many questions were answered that day, and myths dispelled. You could feel a sense of freedom and relief amongst the adults. It was a rousing success!

Then there was Ashley. When I asked her what she meant, she wasn't clear but was sure we had never talked about sex.

This is now…

Sitting across the table from this vibrant young woman could not have been better. For a while, I had been her teacher but always been her friend. 

We caught up on each other’s lives, sharing stories about families and friends. We laughed a lot and had some moments of quietness. And then, in a blink of an eye, she was gone.

I revisit that little girl sitting in a semi-circle with her hand in the air from time to time. That day I didn't exactly know how to respond to her comment or address her underlying question. 

I do now!

Ash, wherever you are…you were right. That education day at the church was never really about sex. It was always about love…

- ted

Coveting the embers...

“A man’s true wealth hereafter is the good he does

in the world to his fellow man. When he dies,

people will say, ‘What property has he left

behind him?’ The angels will ask, ‘What

good deeds has he sent before him?’”

- Mohammed

When we were kids, we spent part of our summers in Canada. My father took the month of August away from the church to the woods of Central Ontario and the crystal-clear waters of Lake Joseph. These were memorable family times. There were no phones, no television; we just had each other.

The family property sat along the southern shores of Whalon Bay. Along that shore was a broad and bare granite rock that gently sloped to the water. It was a perfect place nestled in the woods to safely build a fire near the water’s edge.

We weren’t the only ones on the family property during those times. There were cousins with their own places on the sides of the bay and folks that often dropped in. When a campfire was announced, there was plenty of family and friends who showed up to cook hot dogs and roast marshmallows on small tree branches. While the fire warmed everyone, it was only the vehicle to bring us together. Sharing lives with one another was what really mattered.

In those days, I learned that the combination of graham crackers, Hershey's chocolate bars, and crispy marshmallows made the addictive treat called s’mores. The name suggested it all. One couldn’t (or didn’t want to) eat just one but wanted some more!

Eventually, on those chilly Ontario nights with clear starlit skies, the fire would begin to burn down, leaving embers that were pleasing to the eye but not quite enough to stave off the night chill. Folks would drift away one or two at a time to places of rest, satisfied for having had an evening well spent.

On the occasions I was last to leave, I watched those embers until they were nearly gone, pulling my jacket a little closer against the nippy night air. Finally, water bucket in hand, I doused the soft glow, leaving blackened ashes, the residue of a once brightly lit fire.

While these events are distant in my past, I've been thinking about those campfires...metaphors for the brightly burning glow of life warming me all these years. I've thought of so many people with whom I spent time sharing experiences, hopes, and dreams – remembrances that bring warmth to the chill of the approaching night air.

Some of those souls have drifted away; others are preparing to retire to their places of rest. And yet, the embers still burn, maybe not so brightly but nonetheless meaningful.

I am reminded of the quote by Lénonor d’Allainval...my life has been (and continues to be) “L’Embarras des richesses” (an embarrassment of riches).

Time is undoubtedly moving on. Nonetheless, I'm counting on the embers of my life to continue for some time to come. But I do find I’m pulling my jacket a little closer against the impending night air.

- ted

Stopping on a dime...

“Experiences never end. They’re just semi-colons

where the story takes a break…”

- Anonymous

The request came unexpectedly. The spring semester was barely over, and I was thinking about what I might do during the summer. I listened politely but wasn’t sure I wanted to take it on.

The topic at hand was a five-week accelerated Anatomy and Physiology course that would cover sixteen-weeks of material. It would be taught virtually and was the healthcare track, prepping students for nursing or other health related careers. It is one of the toughest courses we teach.

“It’s only five weeks,” said my department chair. “I thought it might be a good fit and it’s not like the material is brand new.”

Yes, but it would be five weeks of irregular sleep and interfere with my social life. Wait, I don’t have a social life!

On the other hand, I have more frequently said yes to the partially or completely unknown, often providing me with meaningful life experiences.

Quick aside…

When the college went virtual in the middle of the semester in 2020, it wasn’t a model I was keen about. A people person, I love the classroom and the interaction with students. Virtual? I wasn’t so sure. As it turns out, however, by the second semester from my computer to theirs, I found it quite enjoyable.

Back to the five-weeker…

Trying to understand what this class entailed, I contacted several colleagues. I was looking for some insight and to see if any of them had a syllabus I could review. I was surprised by the feedback:

“No, I haven’t taught this course and never would!” and “The college shouldn’t offer this class in that time frame!” and“You couldn’t pay me to teach that material in five-weeks!”

One brief ray of hope was a senior faculty member who said the five-week summer class was one of his favorites. He did have a course outline somewhere but was leaving on holiday the following day – sorry.

While it was true, I had taught this course several times but never in this timeframe. It was a dilemma.

I called a retired colleague who had mentored me through the first semester I returned to the classroom. She invited me to her home, listened to my pros, cons and angst. Her input like the others, was that she would not teach this course. BUT she did have a lot of material, along with some video lectures that she would give me. The decision was up to me.

Time to choose…

Due diligence complete. It was time for the decision. I have a time-tested two-step process for this - little prayer and consultation with the boss. Molly reminded me that when my hands are idle, I am not the happiest of campers and that I have a habit of doing whatever it takes to get projects done. With some positive meditation and an attaboy from my girlfriend, I agreed to teach the class.

Now the work…

To put this in perspective, teaching a full semester’s material in five weeks means the following:

1. Four hours and twenty minutes of contact time, four days a week (Mon-Thurs).
2. New physiology systems taught almost every class rather than one per week (e.g., endocrine, heart, digestion, etc.).
3. Frequent, manually graded homework assignments.
4. Labs and quizzes due daily rather than weekly.
5. Weekly rather than monthly unit exams.
6. Fridays through Sundays spent constructing exams and grading homework/labs.

An upside, the class was virtual. Meaning the commute was from the kitchen to the office in the next room. In addition, the quizzes and exams were automated, meaning, once constructed, they were administrated and graded via a computerized learning system. An elegant online lab program provided students the ability to image anatomy in three dimensions. Thus, students could zoom in and out, rotate 360 degrees, and dissect whatever anatomical structure we were studying (e.g., heart, kidney, lungs, etc.).

Then there were the students themselves. The course began with twenty-four of them. My introductory comments came with the admonition that this material was going to be very challenging. For the next five weeks they would need to eat, drink, and sleep anatomy and physiology.

I think it is human nature for people to overestimate their capacity to get things done. Some of the students thought the course would be easier because of the short time frame. Others were pretty sure they wouldn't really need to put as much effort into the material as I suggested.

By the beginning of week two, six students had dropped the course, and by late in the third week, another five slipped into the ether. I was left with twelve disciples, all of whom finished the course exhausted, but relieved that they (and their instructor) had survived the gauntlet.

It’s always the end of a thing, isn’t it? From the class introduction it was game on. Five weeks later to the day, it was full stop! To use a theatre expression, we ‘struck the set’ at the final examination and went our separate ways as though we had never met. I always feel a little melancholy when the ‘play,’ the hard work, and the intimacy of the game, ends. But that’s just the way it is every semester.

The good news is that there will be another day where I will follow the familiar two-step process: a little prayer and consultation with the boss!

ted