A day of memory...

Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, 

and your government when it deserves it."

- Mark Twain

There is little to say about tomorrow that hasn’t been said many times, by many people.

There is little to feel about tomorrow that hasn’t been felt many times, by many families – brothers…sisters…parents…cousins, aunts and/or uncles.

There is an uncontrollable, and heightened human chemistry when a loved one is in harms way.  The busyness of the day masks the quiet, ever present gnawing thoughts that sit beneath razor thin membranes of our minds, hoping against hope for their safe return.

A lot of hearts...

Less than one percent of the American population are on active duty, compared with somewhere in the neighborhood of nine percent during times of war in previous decades.  A relatively small number compared with the 314 million people who live here.

A relatively small number until you consider that is 3.1 million men and women who serve at any given time in the United States Armed Services.  A large percentage of these folk have been to the theatre of war more than once…many more than three or four times.  Each time there is an increased sense of concern, sometimes helplessness, in those left behind, as they watch their family member depart.  Nobody wants the knock on the door…

I am a veteran of the Vietnam conflict, and every day I was away, my family prayed that their son, brother, cousin and nephew would have a safe return.  Everyday I was away, I thought about the things familiar to me in a homeland I was unsure I would see once again. 

Floyd Eberhard…

My wife’s father was a career soldier, serving in the Korean and Vietnam conflicts.   He was a good man, a decent man, an honorable man, an honest man and he was a patriot.  You never heard of him.  You never felt the resonance of his laugh, nor the clarity of his eye…the intellect he possessed, nor the gratitude he felt to live in this land.  BUT those of you reading this blog in the United States were protected by this man…by this man and so many others who knew life is not kind to all…not fair to everyone – a man who understood the importance of work and discipline and duty for others…for others.

His family – three children and a wife – understood the sacrifice.  They understood the sacrifice, but in their humanity as with all whose people are in danger, they prayed…they hoped…they endured.  Their family, like mine, was rewarded with our return.

So many were not…so many were not!

While my view of recent wars in which our country has been engaged, is one of uncertainty, there is NO uncertainty regarding the men and women who have volunteered to defend this country…willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.  It’s hard to appreciate that some people are wired like that.

Privileged indeed...

We live in a land most of us take so much for granted that it boggles the mind.  As we sit in front of our wide-screen TVs, strive to consume more and more things, go to social events relatively unimpeded, and move through our cities, counties, states and country at will…most do not appreciate what a truly dangerous world we live in.  Most of us only know people in other lands by what we see on cable news or National Geographic specials regarding other cultures…beautifully edited for color and storyline.  Life in this world, for the vast majority of human beings…the VAST MAJORITY…has little in the way of “,,,beautifully edited…” anything.

So for tonight when each of us goes to bed and breathes a prayer for the day past…tomorrow morning when each of us gets up to greet a new day…when each of us looks at our children or spouse or significant other or speaks to someone, with whom we have a relationship of meaning…surely thank God for the things we have. 

But in this land…in this country, for all its difficulties and flaws – thank God for the young men and women who have been willing, regardless of the call and the era in which they served, to risk their lives for all we have been given.

To my brothers and sisters who have sacrificed time or life, and particularly for those who are in ‘…arms and harms way…’

Thank You!

- ted

36 hours in Wellington...

“It’s an amazing thing how you watch your garden grow…

Yes it is a wonder…it’s your mind.”

 – The Seed Song

The email came last Sunday late in the day. 

It wasn’t unexpected - he had been ill for sometime.  Indeed the watch was on…but that’s the thing about losing someone for whom you have a great affection, isn’t it?  Preparing for the event and being confronted with it are not the same things. 

Perhaps its because something inside us says death should not come to living legends…icons ought not leave our presence.  Brilliance, true brilliance does not come that often.  Of little doubt it came…and of little doubt the light will continue to shine.  That’s the big light, but there was the less apparent…intimate light that personally touched so many. 

In the end his family was with him to support the transition.  It is a sacred, in many ways a holy moment.  Not in a religious sense, but a commentary as to the nature of the ‘entrances and departures’ into and from the transient theatre of humanity…the magic of life – the mystery of death.

In the air…

The aircraft is a ‘long haul’ 747…it is appropriately named and it is full.  It takes 14 hours from Los Angeles to Sydney, crossing the international dateline, and a second flight 3.5 hours to Wellington.  On a flight of this length one has a lot of time to think.  There is a choice – consider the time as an irritant…a necessary, but unpleasant delay to the purpose of the trip…or as a gift, a period of solitude in which God smiles and allows some quiet space.  I prefer the latter.

Back at home – wherever…

When the news came arrangements began to be made by many people in many places.  Getting to New Zealand on short notice is not the easiest thing to pull off.  Yet, in the minds of those who were close…those who had known the intimacy and had engaged the gift, there was no question…schedules were adjusted and they came.

They, like me are in transit.  They will drift in from Europe and Canada and Scandinavia and Asia and Australia.  If they encounter one another en-route, they will quietly greet…making small talk about his passing and other things in their lives.  This is what people do.

Once they arrive, they will continue in small groups telling stories and whimsically smiling, as each – in the richness of his or her own mind – remembers a personal experience…an event…a touch.  With it will come those curious human feelings of comfort and loss.  Comfort for their common path, and moments of intimacy they experienced…loss knowing the ‘path…the intimacy,’ will forever be for them a memory – a yesterday.

Who was this man?

Robin Anthony McKenzie was a physiotherapist from New Zealand, and became in his lifetime, possibly the most influential person ever in the evaluation and treatment of people with low back pain.  His full bore curiosity and determination brought a method of helping those suffering from this universally common, personal and societal affliction.  He treated thousands of patients, but understood that for his knowledge to have an impact, he would need to duplicate himself.  He did so by establishing an institute with more than 27 teaching branches worldwide.  He would say he never set out to change the world of back care...he simply wanted to understand.  In the end, he did both.

Between now and Tuesday morning I will spend a little time with those other souls who found their way to this tiny country, to say goodbye to this man so full of questions..so full of life.  A man who understood the universal axiom, that the more one gives, the more they receive – a lesson worth remembering yet once again.

- ted

A simple day...

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”

- Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

“All aboard,” the conductor cried as the doors of the SurfLiner’s opened at the Old Town Station. 

It was Saturday morning with blue skies and temperatures in the early 70s (21C) as I climbed on train #769, car #2134 and headed for the upper deck.  The lower levels are reserved for seniors and the infirmed.  I qualify for the former, but really…I mean REALLY!!  While there is little I can do about the way I look, there is PLENTY I can do minimize the way I think about the number of years I’ve been exposed to the toxic, skin withering, effects of planet earth.  You know, “…you are only as old as you feel.”  By the way, I believe this, but I can’t remember any older people ever saying it to me.  It is usually those young folk!

I was heading to meet a friend for lunch in San Juan Capistrano, a small town some 70 miles north of my home.  It is not a long drive, but even on weekends, Interstate 5 – ‘The 5” – is full of traffic and requires a fair amount of mental focus.  Riding the train takes a little longer, but there is no comparison in quality of the ride!

I always enjoy the train that travels between San Diego and points north.  Maybe I imagine I am the conductor and running it like the Lionel train set my parents had gotten me when I was a youngster.   As I recall, the engine (the most important part) came first before we could afford the tracks and transformer.  Never mind, because when I had all of the parts, it was thrilling to watch that train make its circle of the track at speeds I could control with my little electrical convertor.

The trip north takes an hour and a half from station to station.  For a large part of the trip, the rails hug the beaches along the coast where there are legion of surfers, sunbathers, walkers and joggers.  Occasionally in the first twenty-mile stretch or so, Highway One wedges its way between the shoreline and the tracks.  This means rather than being practically on the edge of the beach where you could hit it with a hefty stone’s throw, you might find yourself as much as a quarter mile (402m) from the shore.

Highway One is the fabled coast-hugging thoroughfare that runs most of the length of the Californian coast, occupying the majority of the United States Western Shore.  It is a long way as the crow flies and much longer as the ‘One’ makes its way along the edge of the State.  In the South, it is fairly straight, but once it gets to Northern California (San Francisco and points north), it becomes a wondrously windy road with tight curves and breathtaking views.  A drive up the coast of California is something special.

On the train…

Between San Diego and San Juan Capistrano, little beach towns with quaint coffee shops and eateries, dot the landscape before the tracks dip back to another beach loaded with folk enjoying the warm Southern California Sun.  On these brief breaks from the coast, road bikers and joggers make their way up and down the byways in their quest for eternal youth.  It seems the pricier the bicycles appear to be, the more colorful the riding shorts and shirts of those speeding ‘leg pumpers.’  Some of the outfits look as though they belong in the circus rather than the road.  I realize they make the riders more noticeable to traffic, but anywhere else but on their bikes, this clothing would seem very strange indeed.  Sometimes you will see them in packs of 10 to 15 riders…occasionally more.

En-route the train passes through Solana Beach… Encinitas… Carlsbad… Oceanside…all beach communities filled with visitors on the weekends, vacationers during the week and where in the evenings, people gather in small groups, in a kind of quiet reverence, to watch the sun disappear into the ocean on the western horizon.  There is something about this daily rhythmic event that places a sense of spiritual wonder over the watchers.  They sit for a few minutes once the giant candle has slipped to an afterglow before getting up, heading home, and spending the next day in preparation to be awed yet once again.

My destination…

San Juan Capistrano is small tourist town containing one of the largest Missions in Southern California.  Many of the communities in this part of the state began as Missions for the Roman Catholic Church.  This small municipality is one of them, and the city has preserved or restored much of what had been there in its early days.  It is a destination tourist spot and on most days there are long lines of people wanting to visit this landmark.  For many years, long before the first mission, Swallows (birds) stopped here during their migrations.  In the 1950s they inspired a popular romantic song, “When the Swallows come back to Capistrano.”  You can see Swallow nests all over the mission grounds, and if you are here during the migration, you will see them too.

The town has many little shops full of unique local art and craftwork.  There is a Starbucks near the train station, but there are any number of small boutique coffee/tea houses with quaint names and warm, authentic atmospheres.  Because the climate is so temperate, many people choose to sit outside under the shade of century old trees or large umbrellas where there is no foliage to protect from direct sunlight. 

A favorite spot…

I have come to this little place several times to meet a partner who comes south from Los Angeles.  It provides a laid back and relaxing atmosphere conducive to productive conversation and a wide variety of delicious food.  It is the kind of place where we can get away from our computers, mobile phones, email and all other forms of distraction.  Less ‘noise’ makes for better communication.

A few months ago, Molly and I came for the day and were looking for a place to have a bite of lunch.  We wandered around until we were both pretty hungry without finding what we really wanted.  It so happened we crossed through a little mall with small storefront businesses.  Right in the middle of the row we saw a line of Hispanic folk at the door of a small restaurant.  We peeked in to see working people standing at the counter ordering food.  We didn’t see any other Anglos and felt this was a good sign.  We hopped in line, and in the end had some of the most authentic and delicious Mexican food we have had since being in California.  This has become ‘my restaurant’ when coming to town.

Day was done...
Saturday turned out to be excellent. The train ride both ways was relaxing.  The time spent with my friend over a delightful lunch, made the outing leisurely and enjoyable.

There is no take away here…no lesson for the day…nothing particularly meaningful about the event.  It was simply a day to celebrate life and a place to share a little time with a friend.  If you find yourself in Southern California driving either north to – or south from Lost Angeles on ‘the 5,’ you will see a sign indicating San Juan Capistrano.  If you have some time and would like to experience a little ‘off the beaten track' pleasure, stop by this friendly community.  You will not be disappointed.

- ted

Not a straight line...

"The shortest distance between two points 

is always under construction."

- Rebecca McClanahan

The ‘in boxes’ were color-coded and labeled.  One red…the other green.  The red box was for her mail and the green for her daughter’s.  Instead of just tossing the mail on the table, this would make it easier to separate when it arrived so that nothing was lost.  A small, but helpful solution, I thought.  I had not realized Nancy could no longer read.

It is a curious thing the way the liquid chemistry of our mind works.  We think of ourselves as…well…as creatures of rational thought, able to reason through life’s small problems.  When one is focused on problem solving and causation, reality often slips unnoticed into the back seat.  It never occurred to me that she couldn’t read.

Time…what is that?

My sister has now been gone for a year and nearly three months.  I still have moments of searching for the reason.  Alzheimer’s – Really??

Initially, the impact of her loss came in waves…BIG waves of sorrow…denial… anger…frustration…doubt…all of it – ALL of it!  Finally acceptance and a return to the safety of faith and neurons filled with impressions, stories, and feelings constructed to make comfortable and sacred the memory of this irreplaceable human being.  These feelings are not unique to me. They are the common experience for all of us who have faced loss, as we were once again reminded last month at the death of my mother-in-law.

Over time, things begin to settle down and seem to return to normal.  We come to grips with the reality that this person, so influential in our lives, is simply no longer there.  

Then a thought or memory or sound or smell or touch or sight enters that most mysterious of places – our consciousness – and we find ourselves no longer in a calm pond, but in a raging ocean of raw immediacy…the feelings bursting through the surface yet once again.  Anyone who has loved and lost knows, with the sharpness of a surgeon’s scalpel, this is the truth!

Perception, the great unknown…

Life is not a straight line.  While true, entrance from ‘stage right’ is the way it begins for all…and generally upstage.  It is further true that as one makes their way across that stage, there are lots of props, actors, and impromptu activities that take place.  I like to think of the journey as musical theater, containing not just dialogue, but moments of soaring music that reach into and touch the soul. Yet no matter what the events, either in the lives of the great (downstage) or the small (those remaining upstage), exiting ‘stage left’ awaits everyone once they have experienced their cosmic ‘vapor of fame.’

Skipping stones…

When I was a youngster, my dad taught me how to skip stones across the surface of the water.  The pebble had to be just right.  I can remember him gazing along the shore for just the exact piece.  Flat, but not too flat…round, but not a perfect circle – “You need to cradle it between your pointer finger and thumb,” he would say.  “Now, cock your arm back and throw the stone sideways at a very low angle to the water, and see how many times it skips across the water before it sinks.”

“…see how many times it skips across the water before it sinks.”  That would be the point wouldn’t it?

Yeah, skipping stones…that is a little more like life.  We move in a moderately straightforward timeline from the ignorance of the unknown at birth, to the realization of the infinitely unknown at death.

Each time we interact with the medium of life, however, just like those stones…concentric circles emerge radiating 360 degrees…in every direction. They continue to move in ever increasing rings until they bump into something that changes their direction – sometimes making their way back. 

It is kind of like this…our life force; words and actions do not occur in a vacuum, but intermingle with the ripples of other skipping stones, each of which has hopped across the surface of the pond until their force is spent and they quietly slip below the surface of the water.  They are unknown to those who did not see the throw, and forgotten by the thrower, except for those special ones…the record setters…the ones that shot plain and true across the surface of the water as though pushed by an unseen force of the gods.

In the hands of the master stone skipper, how many skips do we get, and each time we touch the water, how many influences of the concentric circles from all those other skipping stones do we experience?  The possibilities of interaction are incomprehensible…and yet they are rippling every moment of every day.

It’s those unexpected returning ripples I’m talking about when the come back from the folk I have loved - now gone from my presence. 

In and out boxes…

I was just passing through the store and walked by the office supply section.  There was a model desk with a computer, keyboard and two organizers stacked to the side – one labeled ‘In Box,’ and the other ‘Out Box.’ 

In an instant I was transported to my sister’s kitchen two years or so before her death.  I had been wondering how we might find a simple way to organize the incoming mail, so it was off to the store to pick up a couple of organizing trays…the brightly colored ones seemed a perfect solution. 

She also thought it was a great idea.  “Yes,” she said, “I think this will work.”  Five weeks later when I returned, one tray was missing and the other one was piled high with a lot of things, the least of which was the mail.  When I asked her about it, she didn’t know what I was talking about.  Yeah, “…I had not realized Nancy could no longer read.”  I had not realized the concentric intersecting circles of our lives, were no longer interconnecting…her stone no longer skipping…a kind of suspended animation, waiting…waiting to slip beneath the surface…

I stopped for a moment or two in the store by that office furniture.  I was startled and overcome with intense grief at the loss of my sister, which seemed in the swiftness of that moment as real as it had been in the early days of her passing.  This lasted the briefest of instants and was replaced by a rapid series of images – stories really and thoughts about how wonderful it had been to have played with her for so many years.

The music in the ‘final act’ of her life was discordant, but that could not take away the soaring orchestral score that had filled the majority of her journey. 

In the end, while startled at the speed and intensity of feeling, I was grateful for the moment.  The ‘master skipper’ had done well with her.  She had had principle parts in the play of her life and the lives of others in meaningful ways….selfishly and most importantly – mine.

- ted