Subways in Berlin...

"The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief."

Shakespeare - Othello

Sometimes you get a win when you didn’t even know you were in the game.

She was about five years old holding her mother’s hand when they got on board.

The set-up…
The subway car had been full when I got on ten stops earlier…full of commuters heading home for the day. I had been in Europe for a conference and had a little time to see the city. It was Berlin and I had just finished 10 hours of visiting museums and getting around the city to find them…I was really tired – the kind where you have reached the edge of your brain’s capacity to absorb another piece of information and your 64 year old body is asking, “What were you thinking!?”

I hopped on the subway at Mehringdamm station - well, not exactly ‘hopped’ – for the 18 station trip to my hotel near the Rohrdamn stop. I had taken a seat facing backward across from a young man listening to his iPod, completely oblivious to me or anyone else – his head moved to a beat only he could hear. You have no doubt hear the saying: “Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.” This would describe him exactly…it was nice to see.

As the people thinned out, a bench facing forward opened up across the Isle; I slipped over and settled in with a little more leg room. All four seats (two forward and two backward) were open except for the place I had taken by the window.

The event…
The little girl got on at Wilmersdorfer with her mother who was pushing her to sit facing backward, directly across from me. It was a seat by the door and would be an easy ‘on’ and ‘off.’ I’m a pretty big fellow, and the girl looked a little unsure about sitting across from me, but was obedient in the rush and sat down. She was tiny, as most five year olds are, cute with a knee length jumper and full length, brightly colored stockings.

I looked over to see that she was looking at me. I caught her eye, and she did what most children do when caught glancing at a stranger, she looked quickly down. We rode together for 3 stops to Mierendorflpl with four stops left for me, when I noticed she was carrying a small plastic bag in her right hand. Through the plastic, I saw a 5”x7” (15x18cm) portrait ‘head shot’ of the little girl. As she nervously turned the plastic back and forth, I could see another picture of several children posing for the camera – a class picture from her school. The train was just pulling into the station when I pointed to the picture and then to her, raising my eyebrows and smiling. This is, by the way, my international sign language for short messages with children. It was all I had…I don’t speak German! She nodded, grinned brightly...a warmth that could have lit the afternoon sun with a full ‘tooth showing’ smile – we connected!

The payoff…
As she and her mother got off the train, I wondered with a little anticipation…had the magic between us worked? She trotted off toward the exit holding her mother’s hand, and then it happened…she turned to see if I was watching – we connected again – her smile widened and she waved the hand holding her pictures – A WIN!!

In that moment, all the tiredness of the day slipped away. The unspoken and knowing connection between two human beings had occurred in one of the great languages of the soul…the open smile. It did not require a hard earned vocabulary, hours of repetitive practice, nor finding a place for subtle expression in written or spoken thought – No! The only elements necessary for this to happen were proximity (being near one another) and a willing heart. The scriptures says, “…if first there be a willing mind…” all things are possible.

On that day, in that city, sitting exhausted on that subway car, I was once again reminded of how much we all are alike…young-old, tall-short, black-white-yellow-red…we are connected by the fabric of humanity, and when that connection happens, WE KNOW this is the way God intended for life to be.

That smile from that little girl, was more rewarding in the moment, than all the reading, listening and watching I have done in I my life, to try and understand what any of this means. That little girl, in that moment, reminded me that we can share with each other the most profound of things, in the lightening briefness when two souls touch through the magic of a shared smile.

- ted

Doors and stores...

Resolve to be thyself: and know, that he who finds himself, loses his misery.

- Matthew Arnold

I was sitting in the coffee shop waiting for Bill. We meet early Wednesday mornings to chat about…well, whatever is on the burner for the week. We don’t talk much about the hot button items of the day – you know, the politics, the movies, the sex, the sports…it is mostly just two older fellas who have found some mutual pathways - exploring the resonance…the small personal and spiritual stuff. The sort of things friends do…nothing special…you know what I mean…like a pair of old tennis shoes –quietly comfortable.

We typically meet pretty early, but occasionally get our schedules mixed up. We are usually good about communicating, but this was one of those mornings when we had not checked in the day before, and he was a no show – I’ve missed our meetings a time or two as well.

A wandering mind…
You know how it is when you have a few minutes, waiting to get something started…there really isn’t time to work on anything in particular, or to get into a focused train of thought…you are just waiting. While sitting there, a song from the 1960s slipped out of my memory banks and drifted across my consciousness… “It never rains in Southern California.” The title is ironic because the chorus actually goes:

“…It never rains in California – But girl don't they warn ya – It pours, man it pours…”

Like the lyrics of that iconic Albert Hammond song from a bygone era, it was raining this particular morning and raining hard!

Wants and needs…
The music playing in the coffee shop was Vivaldi – surely different from the 60s rock song in my head. I was looking out the window in front of me, with the unfocused gaze of a camera lens poorly adjusted. Just to the front was a small, open-air walkway running between the coffee place and some shops across the way. A small, flower-decorated pond with a fountain, sat in the middle of the path where shoppers could easily move from store to store lining the walkway. These kinds of little stores are common in the Mediterranean climate Southern California is so famous for, because, in fact rain really doesn’t very often come.

Since it was early, it would be several hours before these stores opened. As I looked through the pouring rain, across the open walkway, I wondered, “If all the doors, of all the stores were open, AND you could take whatever you wanted, what would you take?” How much would you take? When would it be enough?

I thought about that for a few moments, working through my list if items. While this exercise was taking place, a second thought popped into my mind with a bit of a twist.

“If all the doors, of all the stores were open, AND you could take whatever you needed, what would you take?” How much of what you needed would you take? When would it be enough?

Wants vs. Needs…an old dilemma in the story of human nature. What is the measure by, or context through which one makes the decision?

Some things to ponder…
It’s all really relatively, isn’t? For example, if you live in a first world country, have a decent job and gotten used to a particular lifestyle, you might take certain things based on the questions above – the potential for gathering practically limitless.

If you were, as is half the world’s population, living on less than $2.00US per day, with little more than your clothing, some shelter and hard won food for the day, you might have a totally different ‘want to need’ ratio in your life…and you probably would not be reading this.

There is something about ‘…not having…’ with barriers ‘…to getting…’, that makes ‘…wanting to have…’ take center stage in our minds. This sometimes leads us to gather things we may have little use for….keeping them on hand, you now…just in case. It is surprising how much time we spend occupying our minds with the wanting and the getting. Much of this is tied to how we value ourselves, or more importantly how we think others value us. In fact, this is nothing more than background noise in our lives.

It’s all a metaphor
Feeling we want and need things, is really a reflection of a much deeper want and a more thoughtful need. Thinking about these questions led me to a series of thoughts regarding spiritual pathways and spiritual stores, and the things we want and need out of life. Not clothing or jewelry or computer or the latest phone technology, but rather wisdom or faith or understanding or joy or happiness – not just the pursuit of happiness…things for which we have the most primal of desires. The things we get at the literal store satisfy us for the briefest of time. The things we get from the spiritual stores of life are more difficult to attain, but infinitely more satisfying.

Is there a point here?
The conversation in life is not about the big things, the mountains yet to climb, the drive to have things that proclaim we are something or somebody. This is a conversation that feels comfortable like an old pair of tennis shoes. It is about finding an internal resonance, a quiet dialogue between friends. At this time in life, there is a realization that my best friend should be me – the creature that lives inside the body I inhabit, the friend who carries the name Ted. As I have been a little longer in my journey, THIS is what I WANT…more importantly THIS is what I NEED. My wants and my needs becoming the same thing…and isn’t this the way it should be?

- ted

The clock is ticking...

"If you're always battling against getting older, you're always going to

be unhappy, because it will happen anyhow."

Schwartz, M – Tuesday’s with Morrie (Alblom, M)

The clock ticks and another minute expires, slowly, with the unrelenting deliberateness of a glacier grinding its way down a mountainside. The seconds’ fly, but minutes move imperceptibly from one to the next…and the next…and the next…

On this day…exactly the moment of this post (1300Z GMT or 0900 EDT), I will have repeated this cycle 33 million, 6 hundred 38 thousand, 400 times. That’s a lot of minutes.

We are not used to thinking in these increments of time; they seem, well…insignificant. Yet as the “...journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step…” countless minutes pile up providing a framework that permits each of us to become the person we are.

Minutes – in the big picture – seem relatively meaningless. Meaningless may not be correct, but barring unexpected death or terminal illness, we have millions of them to spend.

“The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of 

strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; 

for it is soon cut off, and we fly away…” (Psalms 90:10 – Bible)

We work through them, fight through them, sing through them, dance through them, love through them, sleep through them and do all manner of things to occupy our lives through them.

Birth – death…(taxes?)

While it is easy to lose track of the minutes in our lives, two are particularly meaningful. In the oddest of ways, while significant in the extreme – in the moment, their importance is completely lost on us.

The first minute signals the beginning, as we emerge from the womb with life and its unpredictability lying in front of us. We gasp for the thin atmosphere of air so alien from the amnionic fluid that moved in and out of our lungs in our mother’s womb. We do not remember this event, but family and close friends preserve memories of that promising entrance into life. Mothers cherish the miraculous fruit of their labor – the marvel of childbirth renewing the cycle of life - refreshed yet again.

Once that breath is taken, the clock begins ticking – minute after relentless minute toward the second truly extraordinary and meaningful minute and breath…our last! Everything in between is the lyric and music that brings meaning to our life experience.

A momentary pause...

Each stage of life happens only once. As infants we’re weak and need support; as children structure and education. We are impulsive and spontaneous in youth, serious and thoughtful in middle age and hopefully mature and reflective in old age…each of these seasons bear some sort of fruit – gathered and stored for the next stage.

This idea becomes more important as one edges into old age. What is old age anyway? Surely it comes after middle age, but where is that invisible line?

It has been said 60 years (31 million minutes and change) is the new 40. It is not clear to me what that means either. Over the years, it always seemed strange to hear people I knew resist (as if they could) entering their 30s and 40s as though they were somehow toxic. There must be a marker or measurement somewhere that I missed as the decades have come and gone.

I have got to be honest here, as I rose the morning following my 30th, 40th, 50th and 60th birthdays, I felt pretty much the same as I had the day before. It should also be noted, except for the inability to jump as high, run as fast or hold my breath as long, the passing of this 63rd year as I write, has been the best of my life…as were the previous years when I was living them.

Back to the minutes…

While each of us is somewhat different, the time course of life – barring an unforeseen event – is fixed. Nature, which constructed the unimaginably intricate body in which we live, as if to say, “…this time is enough…” deliberately and thoughtfully deconstructs our lives…easing us toward the unavoidable end of earthly experience. It is the natural order of things, the rhythm of life repeated billions of times, not something to be feared – rather embraced.

That first minute, begins with a blank slate…the last minute, preceded by adventure after adventure, passes as we leave behind all that we have known. In the most profound of ways, we are curiously clueless about both. We share neither excitement of the beginning of our lives, nor sorrow of the departure from it. We, the principle character in the play, are given little insight into either event. We only gain a little understanding by witnessing the birth or death of others. It is even ironic that we celebrate the battle and struggle to begin life and sorrow for the final peace that we all seek.

The final breath occurs as we fight to maintain the life that began so many uncounted minutes before…the last breath – the ‘agonal gasp’ as it is called, signals a close to the journey – a shedding of the physical skin…leaving all behind.

Old age?

If I am approaching old age (as part of the 'new 40s'), I am grateful there is no indication as to when that last minute and breath will occur. Since it is clear that it will happen and there is nothing to be done about it, I can set that aside and get on with everything I possibly can out life...embracing it as it comes. At this time of life, there is better focus and a cutting away of the distractions of earlier years...because this time of life permits paying attention to the things that have more meaning to me.

While “I…have repeated this cycle 33 million, 6 hundred 38 thousand, 400 times,” I know a couple of  things:

     1. If my last minute and breath were to occur as this post is sent, I could not have asked for a better and more quality life experience. Having said that…

     2. I’m looking forward to a few million more!

- ted

Footprints in the sand...

"A man that hath friends must show himself friendly…" 

- Proverbs 18:24 - Bible 

The email
He was in sunglasses on the video, but the ‘look’ and the ‘voice’ were as familiar as my own image in the mirror. He said, maybe this would be a way to communicate a little more frequently…it had been awhile – quite some time since I had seen his face and heard his voice, but in that instant we were NOT a couple of fellows in our 60s, but kids living in the 60s.

It simply appears…
Your first friend just happens…no plan…no strategy…just life. Think about it for a moment – you WILL appreciate your memory.

John and I were the most unlikely of personalities to find resonance. I ‘hid’ from life in sports; he in the arts – ‘we’ in our friendship. In fact, I have NO IDEA how we began…but we did. He was my first real friend – the one with whom animated conversations, ludicrous antics or complete silence fit like a glove. There were no judgments in that experience, no bitterness, no sustained anger…just a huge mental bank account of tolerance. It was so natural, it simply was. We were the fellas who hung together the way those characters in buddy movies do – he even had a motorcycle!

The last couple of years of high school, outside of the band for him, athletics for me, and our respective girl friends, there was little time we did not spend together. It was one of those friendships, in an age filled with all of the bonding chemistry and angst, that arises when trying to fit into a confusing and ever expanding world. While it didn’t appear that way to others, we were outsiders, a couple of guys who didn’t get the world around us doing the best we could – trying to figure it out.

You know exactly what I am talking about.

In youth, one thinks life will always be what it is – you know, the corner grocery store, the local theater, the neighbors next door. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. After high school we drifted apart – off to different colleges and different life experiences.

What’s the deal?
Growing up is the ultimate experiment. Since, for each person, it is the first and only time it happens, there is little context for the emerging tapestry of our lives. It was my assumption John and I would simply pick up where we left off – you know, always friends. Friends, yes…pick up where we left off? Four decades later it has simply not happened.

Life is like this. We get busy, distractions pre-occupy our lives and before we know it, like the quietness of an evening sunset, what seemed so crisp and clear, softens around the edges and things slip out of reach – so it was with John. Life happened and the day drifted gently into the shadows of time.

The Bhuddists are right about this…while the flame on the candle appears to provide a consistent light, it is in fact never the same as the candle slowly melts away.

Yet, as time passes in life – when things begin to slow a little and you look around – when you realize in those moments of “…pale hushed stillness before dawn…,” you would give a lot to be that young man once again; you would be a better custodian of friendship; you would take a more proactive position; keeping the ‘…wick trimmed…’ and the ‘…candle bright.’

So what do you say?
It is not clear to me, living in a world of political correctness, how one is to express the meaning of friendships that men develop. We are not so good at expressing our feelings to one another…so we play ball, hunt and fish, attend or watch sports, or talk about meaningful things of the moment. We mask our feelings through the many activities that act as substitutes for expressions of deep appreciation – as if to suggest we don’t need to say the words, to understand the affection and friendship. We almost never tell them we love them. Women seem to be able to do this – we are not so good at it.

You substitute…
There is a wonderful scene in the film Dancing with Wolves demonstrating this very point. It is near the end of the movie when the character John Dunbar (renamed Dances With Wolves) is leaving. One of his chief rivals in the film is the character Wind in His Hair. In the end, they forge a deep bond of respect for one another. Wind in His Hair, cannot bring himself to face Dances With Wolves’ departure. From a ledge at some distance he appears and calls these most memorable, and to me deeply moving words:

“Dances With Wolves. I am Wind In His Hair. Do you see that I am your friend? Can you see that you will always be my friend?”

It is said, “Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Others stay awhile, make footprints on our hearts and we are never, ever the same.” A fair amount of water has passed under the bridge since those early years....John and I haven’t seen much of each other.

Maybe that video thing will work out, but whether it does or not I know this:

“John. I am Ted. Do you see that I am your friend? Can you see that you will always be my friend?”

- ted

A memory this day...

"He is young…He's afraid

Let him rest…Heaven blessed.

Bring him home…Bring him home…Bring him home."

Jean Valjean – Les Miserables, the musical

There is a paradox in this time…on this day…in this country. We find ourselves at war…something that seems, for some, a distant inconvenience…for others, who have lost a son or daughter, a friend or neighbor…an indelible stain that will not wash away.

Yet, on this Memorial Day in the United States, we should remember the freedoms we have are due to the sacrifices, ultimate or not, made by Veterans who gave of themselves for this country. We should remember the privilege and freedom – of religion, the press, speech, assembly, and the right to vote – comes because of sacrifices by those who served.

I journaled this four years ago and thought it appropriate today…

An opportunity…
I met an American hero today.

This past week I was in Palm Springs, California for a meeting. My flight home to Detroit through Chicago was delayed by 3 hours because of weather. By the time I got in it was well past 10PM and the flight to Detroit had been cancelled. It was a nightmare in Chicago with hundreds of people trying to find places to stay because many flights, like mine had been cancelled. I managed to get a hotel about 17 miles from the airport in Addison, Ill, and the 'last car' available from a limo service that had been recommended - there were no more taxis. It was late; unexpectedly snowy; cold and by the time I got to the hotel and collapsed by 2AM, I was ready and grateful for the bed.

Later that day, the flight to Detroit was scheduled for 1:55PM. There was an earlier flight at 10:40AM that was oversold, but being somewhat of a road warrior; I thought I might try to stand-by. I got to the airport, through security and to the gate for the earlier flight, where I was issued a stand-by coupon. There was an airline lounge just down the corridor, so I went in to wait. I was tired and my schedule was in total disarray. While holding up fairly well – I was anxious to get home.

The unguarded moment…
He entered the lounge in his wheelchair, his person so clearly recognizable. I had seen him many times before in the media, speaking with eloquence and care for the lives of so many young men for whom he had become a symbol.

We had all wondered what might happen in that foreign land; we wondered whether we would come home, whether we might ever see our loved ones – who seemed so much more precious to us as the plane took us from our shores to that foreign land. We often talked in soft voices, naively saying if something happened to us, we hoped it would be death – for what we feared most was coming home disfigured; half a man with ugly scars on the outside as surely there would be those hidden within.

The price…
“You can’t do that, you don’t have the tools to be a productive member of society.” They would say to us… “You served your country, but it just didn’t work out.” And so it was for him. His wasn’t the ultimate sacrifice – it was worse; he survived.

The grenade had taken both of his legs and one of his arms…he should never have survived that event nor the harm and pain it caused both his body and his mind. Yet somehow he did; somehow he moved forward with his life; somehow he became the youngest head of the Veteran’s Administration; somehow he became a United States Senator for six years from the State of Georgia. He struggled much and fought many battles both inside and out – and yet there he was in front of me in this moment. For him, it had worked out, because he had been determined to make it work!

Max Cleland, slipped from his wheel chair into one of the lounge seats transferring without help and busied himself with whatever work he had in his briefcase. I couldn’t contain myself and was drawn to his side. “Mr. Cleland,” I said, “You don’t know me, but I have considered you, for many years, one of America's great heros. I have no way to imagine your life, but you never gave up and set such an example for so many of us.”

The reward…
He was more than gracious, thanking me for making the effort to come and chat with him. He told me of the very recent loss of his mother at the age of 93; he told me of an uncle for whom he cared in addition to taking care of his own needs, reminding me that life and its struggles, while present for all of us, are relative. I shared the recent loss of my mother and he did the most remarkable of things…he reached out, took my hand and held it in his. This man from whom so much had been taken, shared a moment of consolation with me…he consoled me! That brief encounter transcended time and circumstance; the human touch both rich and intimate…a shared understanding that transcended words.

Later I tried to relate this experience to my wife, but could not speak…

I met an American hero today and found in him greatness, gentleness and inspiration that moved me deeply. As I left, I stood to attention and saluted this man who had been such an example for so many young men who – in another time and another place – had feared the worst, some of whom survived…some did not. He smiled warmly with an intimate and knowing look; it was a small gesture of a common brotherhood we had shared in life’s journey. More importantly, the shared experience of war had, in the most paradoxical of ways, opened a door of quiet humanity…the complete opposite of that most base of human conflict.

The gratitude…
In the serendipitous moments of life - those moments that go so completely unplanned, and indeed could not be planned – certain things are magical, things that defy expectation, things that shout, “I just want you to know I’m thinking about you,” things that just seem right and good. This was one of those moments, and for that, on this Memorial Day, I am very grateful indeed.

- ted

Nobody does it alone...

"Who can say if I've been changed for the better

But because I knew you
 I have been changed for good"

- Elphaba: Wicked the Musical

“I gotta go.”

“Where do you want to go?” She said.

In his own private world, anxiously moving around the porch, he replied, “I gotta go.”

Different words this time around…different feelings this time around…There was so much to say, yet no place for it to be said.

The beginning, as all stories should start…
Jim was head football coach for the biggest rival school in our town. Fairmont was, at that time, about ten thousand hearty souls in the middle of the soft, bituminous coal fields of West Virginia. While Jim coached ‘…the other guys for the competing team…’ his daughter went to my high school. Coach always seemed friendly, and while his daughter and I were not an item, I was kind of sweet on her.

My father was a Baptist minister. We had come to this place in the late 1950s, to a new church…a new town…a different culture for Canadian expatriates. From the fifth grade through high school and to college, this was my home. It was here friendships were formed; the life and voice changing discomfort of puberty, and the social revolution of the late 1960s. It all happened in this small town nestled in the West Virginia hills.

After high school, I went on to university, but was not successful. The Vietnam War was on, and I was drafted to serve. Like other young foreigners with immigrant status – a ‘green card’ – military service became a reality.

The years passed…
After separating from the military, I returned to Canada, and was living with my mother’s sister. Because I was not an American Citizen, I could not ply my military air traffic control training and experience in the United States. I stayed with my aunt while making application to the Canadian Department of Transport as an air traffic controller (ATC). Passing the tests and physical was not a problem; I was young, healthy and had already controlled air traffic in one of the least known, and busiest airports in the world – Vung Tau Army Airfield…Republic of Vietnam.

After notice of acceptance, there was a month or so before the training program began and I headed to West Virginia to see a few folk. Life had moved on and the ‘Coach’ was now ‘Dr.’…teaching at the local college. On a whim, I stopped by to visit with him for a couple of reasons: 1 – to see how he liked teaching at the college level, and 2 – to see the status of his daughter.

We chatted for only a few minutes, but in that short time – in those few words – the course of my life was about to change in a completely inconceivable way. He asked if I had finished school...the answer a “no.” I wouldn’t need a degree to control air traffic. It was a good profession, and work I really enjoyed.

He suggested, taking a year to finish school. A degree would be a good idea…after all; one might never know when having a diploma might come in handy. He argued that time would pass no matter what I was doing, and that finishing school would be a small thing, with no real downside – his words…“I’m not saying you should return to school, I’m just saying you should take it under consideration.”

Money in the bank of life…
This was a man who understood people. In particular, he understood young men. He understood one guides, one doesn’t mandate. He understood, motivation must come from within. The key? Find the ‘sweet spot’ in the young person’s mind, and let them think it was ‘their idea.’ He understood, that ‘life example’ in addition to edifying ‘words,’ builds currency in the bank of human relationships…he had invested wisely and was a man with plenty of capital in the lives of others.

I’m not sure about the events that occurred over the next three or four days, but by the end of that week, I had contacted the Department of Transport in Canada – requested and received a year’s delay for the start date in ATC school – and was enrolled in Fairmont State College! I never did return to Canada and become an air traffic controller. That brief encounter caused a ‘sea change’ in my life.

During that final year or so in Fairmont, Jim became for me what he had been for hundreds of young men in his career – a quiet but solid place of solace and comfort when the storms of life seemed a little too much. He was a man who appeared to take comfort in watching ‘his boys’ grow into men.

After leaving Fairmont, the journey led to LaCrosse, Wisconsin for graduate work, finally the University of Missouri for completion of formal post-graduate education. The smell of jet fuel and crowded airspace seemed a distant and increasingly faded memory.

The unbroken thread…
Once or twice over the years, I headed back to Fairmont with only one driving goal in mind…to see Jim. I wanted to remind him again, the investment of his time and attention had been meaningful and worthwhile; I wanted to remind him he had changed my life, and was part of every success I had; I wanted to remind him, while people I met over the years never knew him…everyone of them felt a piece of him in my words and spirit; I wanted to remind him I loved him and appreciated the immeasurable influence he had had on my life.

He would always seem a bit surprised at the intensity and enthusiasm with which I would tell him of my adventures, always finishing with gratitude for his influence…he almost seemed embarrassed by my words. You see, he was simply doing the job for which God had called him. He was following the leading that had been put in his heart. He wasn’t thinking about what any of it might mean…he was just doing his job. His quiet, but steady enthusiasm for life was so palpable; you wanted to be a part of it.

With an irregular regularity, I would write, catching him up on the events of my life – a note coming back with a ‘congratulations’ and brief thanks. A couple of years ago I wrote and nothing came. A month or so later I received a letter from his wife. It sat on my desk for a week – I was afraid to open it. I didn’t want to face the news that his journey was over.

Finally, when I could avoid it no longer, I steeled myself and opened the letter. Jim was not dead, it was worse…he had Alzheimer’s disease. I was overwhelmed.

A journey home…
I knew I was going to be in Fairmont for a reunion the next year and asked his wife whether I might come by and see him. She said, “sure,” and on a warm summer’s day, in those West Virginia hills, I spent some time with this gentle man who had changed everything about my life.

I wanted to, yet once again, tell him how much he had and still meant; I wanted to say, yet once again, how grateful I was that he had given me the option to ‘think’ and ‘do’ something better with my life. I wanted him to tell me that he loved me too, and that he had always known my life had purpose.

I did say some of those things…but there is hollowness when there are no receptors on the other end..an emptiness when words are spoken out of season, when “…the salt has lost its savor.”

I longed to hear him say, “I’m not saying you should , I’m just saying you should take it under consideration.” Instead, he puttered anxiously around the porch of his home repeating: “I gotta go….I gotta go”

I am reminded how important it is to let people you care about know that you do. I have learned to do it at the moment the thought occurs...not waiting until some time in the future. I have learned how important it is...Not just for their sake, but for ours…

I’m not saying you should tell people who have touched your life, that you care about and love them; I’m just saying you should “…take it under consideration…”

- ted

The beat goes on...

“Be aware when things are out of balance…”

Lao Tzu – Tao Te Ching

“Stop philosophizing about what

a good man is and be one.”

Marcus Aurelius - Meditations

The moment I stepped out of the room in tee shirt and light jacket, I knew I was in trouble.  It wasn’t actually ‘the stepping out’ of the room, but the millisecond it took to realize the key lay on the desk inside.  You know the feeling – the mind gets it, but the hands not quick enough to beat the clicking sound of a securely shut door!

I was in the Ozark Mountains in Southern Missouri on my way to teach a course on the clinical management of chronic back pain.  It was March and a great time to be in the ‘Show Me’ State.  This is the time year, when world begins waking from the winter, and the smell of impending spring fills the air like the expectant hope of the first flight of a young bird…a special anticipation to the air – ah, the cycle of life renewing itself once again! 

The trip in had been uneventful and the motel, while modest, had one of those beds that afforded a great night’s sleep.  A common, but not excessive ‘road warrior,’ I have spent many a night in strange cities and in strange beds.  No matter where the room, its cost, or what it looks like…only one thing really matters once the lights are out…how does that bed sleep!  This one was excellent!

It was a modest, family-owned motel where the car parked just outside the room, so slipping out lightly clad seemed reasonable.  Reason quickly faded as chilling reality took front seat.  In addition to being outside the now locked door, the temperature had dropped twenty degrees over night bringing with it an unexpected snow and ice storm.  It was very cold!

Clearly there was motivation to change my circumstance quickly.  There is another motivating factor in the early morning hours – hot coffee! So rather than going to the office to get another key – a rational strategy – I fired up the car, turned on the defroster and waited, shivering until the car heated up – being an early riser doesn’t imply common sense.

Coffee being the predominant thought, the hunt was on for an early morning vendor of that black elixir that renews the cycle of my life on a daily basis.  This was, however, rural Missouri and it was going to take a little time to find a place.

You see what you look for - find what you know...

By the time I found the roadside restaurant, it was 5:30AM and the singular thought occupying my mind was that hot liquid of morning rebirth.  The place was big and stark.  The man behind the counter, in a tone of distracted non-interest said, “Do you want to smoke or not?” I said no and was pointed to a side room down a short hall. 

The non-smoking room was a bit smaller with all but one table empty.  Overhead, 1960s music was playing; the first couple that caught my attention were:  “Help, I need somebody, help, not just anybody, help, you know I need someone. Help me,” and “I can’t get no satisfaction.” – by the Beatles and Rolling Stones respectively.  Songs that excited passion and debate in their day, but now seemed familiar, yet tired lyrics, reflecting a sense of paradise lost, with little help and a touch of thoughtful dissatisfaction.  “Those were the days, my friend.  We thought they’d never end…”  Yet, like the slowly sinking sun into the Western sky, those days…those days slipped into the greyish unfocused shapes of yesteryears.

I was not alone…

I took an empty table and glanced at the others in the room. Both women already looked exhausted.  They were mothers with three children between them – one baby and two little ones, each competing for attention – no men to be seen.  The older of the two asked for a little more water apologizing for the mess the children were making.  The waiter, no doubt having seen this movie more than once, said, “Sure” in a moderately inattentive and knowing monotone. 

You could sense the mothers’ anxiousness – these children needed to eat the food, because for them it was expensive and who knew what would be coming the rest of the day.  How often growing up, did we hear variations of this expression, “Eat your food <your name here>. You should be grateful – just think of all the children starving in <fill in the blank for the country>.” 

The urgency and frustration in this disheveled, blue jean clad mother’s voice, had little to do with starving children anywhere, but rather a compelling urgency that filling these children up was a necessity of life.  Her words carried a tired sternness, “You need to eat the rest of your breakfast.  Don’t let me hear you say you are hungry later…” as if the child had anyway to understand the importance of fueling up for what might be the biggest – maybe only meaningful meal of the day. 

The starkness of the scene, the sense of ‘paradise lost’ in the words of the tired 60s music, and the reality of millions of people living on the edge was overwhelming – almost tangible in this early morning hour.  The emergent problems of these women were not my problems…or were they?  The child caring, fatherless setting, all too common, even in this land where there is so much. 

It is an old story…

What is the mother to do?  How does she survive?  Where does she find the resources to care for this unwanted, but clearly present responsibility?  Who knows what she was thinking, or ‘wanted to hear’ when she was promised the “…whatever…” that caused her to ‘give it up,’ and led to this circumstance.  She, of course, would do what mothers have done through all of time, when left to care from the conception and birth, of a poorly conceived moment in time.  She would do whatever it took!

I got the coffee, had a little breakfast, paid my bill and added a tip.  Yeah, I got a little more interested service, because it was clear, in this setting, only one table was going to tip anything, and it wasn’t the women with the children. 

One of us was inconvenienced by a minor unexpected circumstance, the consequence of which…get a new key and go on with the day – a small thing really.  The others were inconvenienced by a grinding and unrelenting life circumstance - a much greater consequence.  They wouldn’t find a solution to their situation quite so easily.

What do we do? How do we ‘…pay it forward?’  How do we invest the privilege we’ve been given to try and make a difference?  Clearly, most of the world around us is out of our control, there is little we can influence other than our own thoughts, AND we can try to be good farmers…planting ideas and thoughts in the minds of those with whom we come in contact.  We can also act on the thoughts that have been planted in our minds.

I should have quietly paid for their breakfast on my way out – I didn’t.  Next time I won’t make the same mistake…lessons learned – hindsight, you know?

As I left the restaurant, I could hear the closing refrain of the Sonny and Cher hit echoing in my brain, “…the beat goes on, on, on, on, on….”

My hope? Today and next time - be a better man…

- ted