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

Aging and the 'three Rs'...

“My life is but a vapor, here for a moment. Then it vanisheth

away, and like the flower of the grass, it shall fade away.”

– Billy Hooten music and words: adapted from

James 4:14, Bible

My friend Bill and I have been meeting weekly for a number of years. We have missed connecting from time to time, but for the most part, we keep in contact.

We began getting together when I lived in San Diego. In that day, it was Panera’s Bread for early morning coffee and hot chocolate. After moving to Arizona, the Panera's meetings ended. We decided the way to keep this going was over the Internet, so we began Skyping, Saturday mornings at 6:15.

The great thing about early morning video calls is that you don't even have to get dressed. Tee shirts and coffee cups are pretty much all that are needed. We hold our chats to an hour, mostly because Bill is a serious bike rider and needs to get on the road.

The conversations are never scripted. There are no agendas. We show up, nod to the muses of the universe and let ‘er rip. Once in a while we talk about professional things, but for the most part, our conversations are free-flowing, as ideas bounce randomly around the gray matter between our ears.

Our interaction is a little like writing these weekly pieces. They generally begin with an idea, but as the words appear on the page, they start to take a life of their own, going in directions you wouldn't imagine. When this happens, it is almost impossible to get back to the originating thought. Fighting the direction and flow feels like walking against the current of knee-deep water in a swiftly flowing stream. It’s better just to let it go where it wants to.

This is what happened with Bill and I a couple of weeks ago. Actually, it became a little more focused then. The threads of this conversation had been going on for quite some time.

The two of us are relatively similar in age age. He is older, but he looks younger (to me) and is much more nimble of mind. I hardly ever leave a conversation with him, where he hasn’t left me thinking for several days about something we discussed.

This chat revolved around three things that fellows our age think about with increasing frequency: Reality of life changes, Retirement from the work to which we have dedicated substantial life force, and whether the preceding two thoughts provided a life of relevance. More importantly, will our lives after the reality of retirement be relevant?

Reality…

It’s clear that all sorts of things change from the effects of time and gravity. The lost robustness of bygone years becomes abundantly clear. Perceptual senses diminish. Reductions in hearing, sight, touch, smell and taste, become noticeable. Strength, balance, endurance and flexibility slip away like the slowly incremental movement of the hour hand on a clock. Our ability to focus for extended periods of time becomes more difficult and requires more effort and work.

We can, of course, slow the course of Father Time, through diet, exercise, proper sleep, and management of life stressors, but decelerating does not mean stopping. Active life management just contributes to a more quality, yet terminal experience.

Retirement…

Bill is still at it full-time. He is one of the more dedicated professionals I know. After seeing patients all day, he takes home arms full of charts to complete in the never-ending cycle of work.

I, on the other hand, am in semi-retirement. I no longer have day-to-day clinical responsibilities. This allows me to consult when I want and speak professionally with a little more freedom. If, however, retirement means resting with feet up, and a cold drink in hand, I am far from retiring.

One of the reasons we keep working is that we are uncertain what we would do if we actually retired. Maybe it is the specter of the word ‘retirement’ that we resist. In our generation, it carried the idea of stopping work and with no life focus, drifting off into the sunset. Neither of us wants to go quietly into the night.

Relevance…

This brings us to the word, few guys our age talk about with each other, but weighs heavily on our minds. Have our lives been relevant and what about the time ahead?

Men are generally defined by the work they do.  It’s not particularly ‘what’ our job is, but rather that we are employed in the citizenry of the social body. There is comfort, safety really, in being able to say, “I am a <fill in the blank>.”

Like the identification we carry in our wallets, ‘work’ is an unconscious safety net. If you have ever lost your wallet, you will appreciate how ‘naked’ you feel when there is nothing that identifies you other than your word. Without identification, you can do very little. For example, try getting on a plane, opening a bank account, writing a check, or driving a car.

This is the feeling many men fear. Our jobs, family, projects, professional activities have been a metaphor for life’s ID card. What now that the card has expired? Once untethered, what will our lives be?

Is there a point?

One of the things about friendship is the therapeutic nature of talking. In particular, talking about things that trouble or concern us. It is in communion, we realize others have similar feelings, doubts, and fears…that we can comfort and strengthen one another.

There is nothing we can do to stop time and gravity. Talking about these issues, however, has a way of putting them into perspective. It brings front and center the notion that while the parts we have might be different, the 'play' ends the same way for all of us – resistance futile. Open communication is a calming tonic. After all, it is all about attitude. Embracing what is ahead, rather than fighting it is the key. Like the birth we had and the air we breathe, it is just the cycle of life. And that is relevant!

- ted

The mentor I missed...

“The mind is not a vessel to be filled,

but a fire to be kindled.”

– Plutarch

If I had his mind to explore, I would have unlimited questions. That is the burden of the son who matures too late to plumb the depths of a father’s mind.

I’ve been thinking about my dad lately. He doesn’t come to mind frequently, but when he does, his energy and drive come in full force with the thoughts. It is sometimes surprising that his image appears with crystalline clarity. While he died in his early 70s, succumbing to the rigors Parkinson’s Disease, and in the end, pneumonia – the ‘old man’s friend’ – I generally see him as a robust man in his 50s.

His early years in Toronto, Canada, were challenging, but he was a tough, resilient kid who believed in two life-advancing principles.

The first was education. No one in his family had gone to university. To him, learning was the great equalizer and pathway of escape from the life into which he had been born. He attended and graduated from McMaster University. 

The second was embodied in the words of Winston Churchill he often quoted:

“Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never ­ in nothing great or small, large or petty – never give in, except to convictions of honour and good sense.”

– The Best of Winston Churchill’s Speeches

These words were a foundation that guided his life. Other than the Biblical Scriptures upon which his ministry was based, and the seductress of his life, Churchill’s words provided a guiding light for everything that he did. To my father, it was pretty simple. If you start it, finish it. If you do it, do the best you can.

My early life, as a preacher’s kid, was, I suspect like a lot of other youngsters brought up under congregational scrutiny. Sunday school was a must, and attendance in services, mandatory. In those years, my place, along with my sisters, was in a pew next to my mother as the elements of a Sunday morning’s church service unfolded.

While I didn’t understand much of what my dad preached, nor for that matter reasons for coming to church in the first place, I had to admit he was dynamic in the pulpit. He prepared compulsively, tucking thoughts away throughout the week between hospital visits, deaths, births, weddings, potluck dinners, mid-week prayer services and church business meetings.

Saturday evenings, he would disappear into his study, pulling together thoughts for Sunday morning’s sermon. How he ever read the notes he made was a mystery, considering his hand writing made hen scratches look coherently understandable.

From his hieroglyphics, came his final draft on a manual typewriter, single-spaced. A child of the depression, he learned the importance of conservation, so there were no margins. Type began and ended at the edges of the sheet of paper.  There were nights, when not satisfied, he worked straight through until it was time to shave and get ready for church.

Everything he did was with focus and determination. I saw his example, but truth be told, had little idea of what he thought about or the way he processed things.

His work ethic was mind-numbing, but I was so busy with my own life, I did not…could not understand the passion that drove him. I was a bystander, a passenger, in the day-to-day vehicle of family life, oblivious and without an appreciation for the giant with whom I shared a home.

Several years after his death, my mother made the decision to sell her house in Ohio and come to Missouri to live with my sister Nancy.  The girls and I headed home to help Mom get the house ready.

As it turned out, my father had kept quite a few of his sermons in boxes in the basement.  I pulled some of them out to read, and was amazed. There they were, in all of their single-spaced glory, with notes scribbled between the lines as he rethought or added an idea.

It was, many years after his death that I met my father for the first time.  His writing was clear and in the fashion with which he spoke. I could hear his voice in my head as I read his words. In some ways gratifying, and in ways it was disappointing.

Reading his work, was like reading short essays on religious, social, and spiritual topics. That was the upside – getting to know my father better. The downside was not being able to have a dialogue with him to understand better the things that led to the shaping of his thoughts.

I am sure you have heard the question, “If you could pick anyone in history to have dinner with, who would it be?” Over the years, I have thought about who that person or those people might be. There is, however, someone I would prefer above all others…my father.

- ted

Taking the moment...

"Nearly all the best things that came to me in life 

have been unexpected, unplanned by me."

– Carl Sandberg

I thought the poster tube would be at the front desk. It wasn’t.

There is an axiom for presenting at professional meetings. Don’t pack your presentation material. Carry it with you. In the early days, there were stories of luggage – and slides – lost somewhere in transit. In fact, one year at a meeting in the Midwest, I discovered, much to my horror, that I had forgotten my slides altogether. Improvisation is the key. The ‘lemonade’ I made was a virtual description from a podium in front of a blank screen. Surprisingly, it worked.

At most scientific meetings abstracts of potential presentations are sent to a committee for review. If the submission is accepted, it is given a second look to decide whether it will be a podium talk, or given a poster slot.

Our abstract submission was accepted as a poster for the Miami meeting. Since it was large, I made the decision to send it by Federal Express. Feeling a little nervous, I dropped the poster off and hoped I would not need to find another print shop when I got to Miami.

When I arrived, I called the front desk – no poster! After the initial panic, and explaining there were specific instructions on the address label, I was told it was probably at the FedX office in the hotel, and I could get it at 7 AM the next morning.

Seven AM – Next Morning

When I walked in the shop, Jonathan and Servio were talking in the corner behind the cash register.  Both fellows looked Hispanic, but as I learned a little later, Servio’s heritage was Italian, Jonathan, maybe Honduran.  The good news? The poster was there. Servio went to get it.

The better news is that Jonathan and I had a chance to chat for a few minutes.  When Servio returned, the conversation led to life, a little politics and what a great country this is. Both of the young men were immigrants, and I shared with them, I was also an immigrant whose origin of birth was Canada.

There was a little more talk about culture and origins, and then I asked them a question I have found myself asking folks over the years. It usually happens with people, male or female, with whom I feel a connection. I definitely felt a resonance with these fellows.

As soon as you read it, stop and think for a few moments about the answer before you finish reading the piece.

Here comes the question.  

Why do you consider your best friend, your best friend?   Please describe them out loud. That’s right, even if you are by yourself, pause a moment and describe your friend out loud, not necessarily loudly.

If you have done this, you may continue reading.

The above question went to Jonathan and Servio. In his brief description, Servio’s gaze drifted away, his eyes sparkled and his face lit up with a smile. You could almost see him reacting to the immediate presence of this person in his mind.  His friend was curious, made him laugh and had a big heart. Jonathan described his best friend, as humorous, compassionate, loyal and smart. He finished by saying she had brought him into the world. It was a tender moment for the three of us.

What they said was touching, but what they DID NOT SAY is the point of asking.

They told me nothing about the color of their friend's skin, eyes, or hair. They didn’t say anything about height or weight. I did not learn a thing about their friend’s favorite music, or something they did together.

What I got, and what I always get, was a description of the person’s wisdom, humor, or sense of justice. Often I am told how kind or generous or loving or understanding their friend is. Often I’ll hear about how much character they have or how brave they are.

Sometimes I'll probe a little further by asking why they did not tell me about their friend’s physical appearance. Usually, people say it just didn't come to mind.

Take home…

Here’s the thing. What really matters is the way people make us feel, not the way they look. This is what makes for individual friendships and is the basis of a strong social fabric.

It is disappointing, that we often categorize people, NOT by the content of their character as Martin King said, but unimportant things such as appearance, gender, culture, education, race, income levels or social status. All of this is background noise.

In the ocean of humanity, attention to appearance is shallow water. The ‘what’ about any person is so far removed from the ‘who,’ as to challenge one’s sensibility.  

It was good to be reminded, within the confines of that small FedX shop, the human spirit is alive and well.

- ted

Storms? It's about perspective...

“Storms make the oak grow deeper roots.”

– George Herbert

It's summer monsoon season here in Arizona. Because we are at the base of the Catalina Mountains, there are brief periods of fast moving water across roads and in washes decompressing the unbelievable volume of water rapidly collecting from the mountain slopes. The power of nature is so awesome all that can be done is try to manage its effects.

There was one such powerful summer storm today. Sitting in the small alcove just outside the door to our home, I have a front row seat – a dry seat – to a magnificent thunderstorm. The streets in our neighborhood act as water conduits, and when it rains hard, they look like small, blackened rivers of incredibly fast moving water.

There is something soothing about thunderstorms. The torrent of falling rain provides a paradoxical sense of comfort, stillness, and isolation. It is a little strange, but there are few things I enjoy more than a full-throated downpour accompanied by the occasional whip-cracking explosive bang of nearby lightning strikes and rolling thunder.

I owe this feeling of awe and comfort to my mother, as I do so many positive attributes in my life. She had friendliness and comfort genes, which made people feel welcome and safe in her presence.

Safety would be the watchword here because my earliest memory of heavy storms was not so pleasant. We were in Canada and driving along the narrow roads of cottage country one night in a storm. While the exact year is not clear, the event is. There was a brilliant flash somewhere nearby, an earsplitting explosion, followed quickly by the acrid smell of ozone produced when the powerful electric charge, split two oxygen molecules and temporarily reconstituted them into a three molecule construct.  The air felt charged, and as I recall, my sinuses instantly cleared…I was terrified.

I huddled down in the front seat of the car as Mum, pulled off to the side of the road. She rubbed my back and said, "It's okay honey, that was just the angels bowling tenpins. One of them got a strike."  It was her way of taking a frightening event and making it something of an awesome wonder. We got back on the road for the short ride to the cottage…my head in her lap. As was her custom, she later revisited the event in the context of the breathtaking spectacle of storms and how they were part of God’s plan.

She was a great story-teller…never more in her element than when they were from the Bible. In this case, it was the book of Ecclesiastes where Solomon describes the cycle of rain falling, being taken back up to the clouds and falling again…my first science lesson. Thunder and lightening were part of God’s remarkable plan to keep his planet fresh and sustained. That was her way.

The foundation she laid in my mind and heart took away fear and replaced it with wonder. My mother was quick to make me understand that storms could be dangerous, but if I were respectfully careful, I did not need to fear them.

Before we had our own cottage, some of our relatives took turns staying in the family cabin…ours came in August. The best part of this place, in the context of storms, was the covered veranda that faced the bay on Lake Joseph. When summer rains came, you could embrace the storm while staying dry.

At one end of the porch was a small, screened-in area that had a bunk bed. There are few memories in my life more pleasantly powerful than lying on the bottom bunk listening to the pounding of the rain and on the roof.

The thunder and lightning? Thanks to my mother, they were the burnt sugar topping on the Crème Brûlée of a summer storm.

Over the years, I have been in weather that was dangerous and scary…driven in the rain so heavy, I could barely see the road…lightning strikes so close as to stand my hair on end, but other than the momentary fear, I have always felt appreciation for the power of the event.

Sitting here today is no exception…the downpour evoking so many appreciative memories. It brought my mother to my mind, and while I was reminded of that early event, I closed my eyes as she and I visited together on any number of other topics.

During my journey with this woman, I learned to weather any number of storms. She helped to take away the fear and to see them as a part of the journey. She understood life did not always bring clear and sunny skies. She provided a covered veranda to help me see that no matter the circumstance, much could be appreciated from the storm.

Little doubt, “There is something soothing about thunderstorms…”

- ted

Want one? Be one...

“Friendship provides sustenance to the frailty 

of the human condition in which I live .”

– Anonymous

Isolation is fatal!  Okay, life is fatal!

I get it! But living is what happens between the bookends of birth and death. Isolation during the breath of life we have been given has everything to do with the quality and quantity of the ‘what happens’ in the middle.

I’ve been reading Marcus Cicero’s essay On Friendship the past couple of days. Friendship is that indefinable thing in which there are no strings attached. It is part of the human condition that is more needful than anything in life short of clothing, shelter, and food.  Even then…even then, a good friend is one who asks for nothing – someone with whom you can talk about anything, as though you were talking to yourself…someone who shares your joy or sorrow, and has empathy for both.

I am particularly appreciative of friends that bring a sense of stability and continuity to my life.  While it is easy to enjoy good, friction free moments with other folks, it is when the chips are down that I turn to those with whom I feel the safest.

I don't mean when work is challenging or a project seems insurmountable, I am talking about when the curtains of life darken the soul, and there seems to be no light…suffocating moments when it feels there is no room to breathe. It is then, the roster of those to whom I can turn, is a short list.  While it might be true there is safety in numbers when the ‘shoes of life get tight,' the numbers are small.

Friendship, of course, is a two-way street.  Solomon in the Proverbs writes: "A man that hath friends must show himself friendly..." (Pro. 18:24). Building bridges of real friendship takes time, interest and effort. 

Cicero says:

“For friendship is nothing else than an accord in all things, human and divine, conjoined with mutual goodwill and affection, and I am inclined to think that, with the exception of wisdom, no better thing has been given to man by the immortal gods.”

It’s not that all relationships are the same, they, of course, are not, but all of them do have things in common, such as tolerance, patience, longsuffering, support and belief in one another, pleasure in time spent in one another’s company.  Friendships casual or deep have these qualities.  The thing about friends is that they don’t have to be around to appreciate them. Just thinking about them is often enough,

Cicero again:

“…friendship includes very many and very great advantages…it projects the bright ray of hope into the future…he that looks on a true friend, looks, as it were upon a sort of image of himself…friends though absent, are at hand…though dead, are yet alive.”

Some mistake relationships (existing for whatever reason) with friendship. This is not so.  So-called friendship based on expediency in many ways is like sex without love…its meaning diminished from the purpose for which it was intended. Friendship requires kindness, love, and trust, without which is time ‘empty spent.’

If there is a point to this wandering topic, it is this. We are stronger together than we are apart. We find solace in the interaction with others, and poverty of spirit when we are alone.  Friendship softens the hard edges of our lives. It breaks down barriers because it is based on love and the desire all have for inclusion.

While there are but one or two people to whom I would turn in mortal crisis, my life – and yours – has been given strength by those to whom we have reached out and gotten to know. These are the people that have expanded our worlds and increased the quality of our lives.  Even better, those who have reached out to us, provide a sense of gratification and reinforcement of our own self-worth.

For me, Cicero’s words are as timely today as they were when they were written:

“Ask of friends only what is honourable; do for friends only what is honourable and without even waiting to be asked; let zeal be ever present, but hesitation absent...”

When I think about the canvas of my life, those with whom I have spent ‘my breath’ richly color it.  I’m pretty sure if you take a little time and think about yours, you will feel the same…

- ted