FREEDOM = RESPONSIBILITY

FREEDOM & RESPONSIBILITY

There has been a lot about Freedom recently. Protesters with guns are complaining that they are being denied their freedom to work, to go to church, and to congregate in large crowds. They embrace the word freedom, but ignore the responsibility that comes with it, reducing it to a meaningless word designed to trigger an emotional “gut” response in the listener or reader. A recent diatribe on social media against some perceived broach of “freedom” ended with the declaration, “we are born free”.

What does it mean to be born free? That we are not born into serfdom or slavery? That we are born with the freedom to think, say, and act anyway we choose, free from the restraints of the rules of the state, or the community, or our families? That we are born free from any obligations to others, to our community, or to our government? To say we were born free is meaningless.  In this country we share living space with 310 million people, and whatever freedom we want for ourselves must take into consideration everyone else.  This means making compromises and accepting restrictions that would have made no sense 250 years ago. Freedom comes with responsibility to others and to our community. Freedom cannot exist at the expense of the wellbeing of others.

LUNCH WITH DAD

 I get along well with food. My life long relationship with it can be divided into 3 stages. The first was growing up in a house dominated by my mother’s kitchen, the center of our family life, and heavy with the aroma of garlic, basil, and oregano. Food was seamlessly connected to family and friends, and was an integral part of all social gatherings. All visitors were directed to the kitchen table where they were offered coffee, food, wine, or any combination of the three. This experience was comfortably tucked away in my psyche where it quietly remained for most of my adult life - the second stage. The third stage began gradually as I entered into the so-called Golden Years. As those childhood experiences of food re-surfaced I began to appreciate how much they helped define who I am, and I eagerly embraced them. And the association between food, family, and friends so firmly ingrained in my mind, continues today. I enjoy food more than ever before, and the enjoyment is always greater when Patience and I are sharing our table – or kitchen counter – with family and friends.

In recent years I have become a big fan of the mid-day meal. Regardless of where I am or what I’m doing I usually manage to find time for the lunch. It doesn’t matter if I’m hungry or not. At 12 o’clock I leave the studio, cross the breezeway into the kitchen and call – actually yell – to my wife that it’s “time for lunch”. The meal is usually a simple affair with little cooking required, and generally consists of whatever I find in the fridge: leftovers, roasted peppers, cheese, Mortadella or salami, and a fresh tomato when available. With Patience’s homemade bread, and a little olive oil and Balsamic vinegar, anything is possible. A recent addition to my lunch menu is the 8-minute egg – an undercooked hardboiled egg cut lengthwise, drizzled with olive oil, salt, and black pepper - simple, elegant, and delicious.

But in addition to being one of the simple pleasures in my life, lunch has become a constant reminder of my father, a man who could not hide his enjoyment of food. Like all farmers, my father’s life was defined by long hours of hard work. His day would begin with early morning chores and end late in the afternoon or early evening, interrupted only by breakfast, and the mid-day meal. I can see him sitting at the kitchen table with his face breaking into a satisfied smile as my mother places the food on the table. I can even here the soft audible sigh he would invariably make. It didn’t matter if it was a few leftovers from the night before, or an assorted collection of cheese, bread, peppers, and other “whatever’s”, his enjoyment of each meal was obvious and genuine. Of course if it was pasta the sigh was always a little louder. His mid-day and evening meals were always accompanied by a small juice glass of his red wine from one of the barrels in our cellar.

This simple mid-day meal has become a welcomed oasis in my daily routine. In addition to the delightful flavors that make it such a treat, there are those moments when a particular taste or smell triggers a fleeting memory of my mother’s kitchen. It is easy to imagine my father sitting across from me now, sharing the joy of this simple meal. We raise our glasses and silently toast one another. It can’t get any better than that.

Luciano Pavarotti was correct when he said,

 “One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.”

Bill Renzulli can be reached at wfrenzulli@mac.com

I AM WHAT I AM

Paducah Sun  ll-10-19

We said our goodbyes, and as he walked away he turned and said, “I’ll see you shortly”, not see you later, or see you next time, but I’ll see you SHORTLY. Even if he was unaware of it, I knew what he was implying.

I was born short, and have remained short in stature all of my life. Sadly, with the years taking a toll on my spinal column, I am becoming even shorter. Most of the time it has been a non-issue. I think the first time I became aware of my shortness was in my pre-pubescent years. I remember aunts and uncles telling my mother that it was only a matter of time before I would “shoot up”. That was the phrase they used, and it has stuck firmly in my mind – shoot up. I don’t remember ever asking my parents about it. They were both short, as was the entire lot of the Renzullis and Rondinellis. I wonder if my parents were concerned about my lack of height. Were they disappointed that I did not “shoot up”. Did I fail them? I don’t want to think about that.

For the most part I am oblivious to my shortness, and it’s only in certain circumstances that I’m forced to deal with it. One that seems to becoming more frequent is being in close proximity to a very tall person. I make a concerted but subtle effort to avoid being so close that I have to look up at them. I will move away to allow some distance between us - 10 or 12 feet for casual acquaintances and 4-6 feet for close friends. My wife says I look all “shifty” when I’m creating this buffer zone, but I don’t believe it.

I recently stumbled across an article about famous Hollywood actors who were short. I thought this would give my self-esteem a big boost, but it was not to be. The actors they were calling short were all taller than me! If you’re 5’5” tall, 5’7” is not short! That’s tall. Over a dozen actors were listed, and they were all taller than me. The only one shorter than me was Danny Devito, my new role model.

The real reason for today’s diatribe is a recent encounter with our new washing machine. It was early morning and I was getting ready to get in the shower when I realized I needed a towel. I yelled to my wife who said clean towels were in the dryer. Still in my underwear, I made my way to the laundry room where I found a towel and proceeded to remove the remaining dry cloths from the dryer. The problem began when I decided to transfer wet clothes from the washer to the dryer. This was my first encounter with our new top-loading washer. The task went smoothly until I reached the last of the cloths, mostly socks, at the bottom of the tub. I stretched by lean sculpted arms as far as they would go, but could not reach the bottom. I stood on my toes and pressed my abdomen hard against the edge of the washer and came tantalizingly close, only to have the *&%#@ socks slip from my fingertips. After several unsuccessful tries I became a cauldron of frustration and determination and would not be satisfied until I got that last miserable sock. I managed to lean over until my feet were no longer touching the floor, balancing on the edge of the washing machine that was now quite familiar with my belly. It was then that I realized the elastic band of my underwear was caught on something, and was the only thing keeping me from reaching the socks. I thought if I began rocking back and forth I might reach the bottom, but quickly dismissed that notion when I almost did a header into the tub and was saved by my underwear, which was now being severely tested. I could only imagine what might have been a nightmare scenario for my sweet wife – finding me lost in the bowels the washing machine with only my legs and feet visible and my underwear around my ankles.  I loved her too much to expose her to that. So I carefully settled back down to the floor, checked my underwear for tears, and grabbed a coat hanger. With some creative twisting I fashioned a hook with which I eventually retrieved the socks. I met Patience in the hallway on my way back to our bedroom. She looked at the deep large red line across my lower abdomen and said, “Oh dear, you didn’t empty the washer did you? There was one more cycle left for that load.”

I wonder if Danny Devito does his own laundry. Probably not.

A LOVE AFFAIR WITH BARNS

I love barns: old and new, large and small, dairy, tobacco, and well kept or falling apart. I think I can honestly say I’ve never met a barn I didn’t like.  This love affair began long before they became subjects for my art. Barns and outbuildings were a part of life growing up on a farm. The barn was a playground for me and my friends, a place for hiding, building forts in the hay, for climbing, and for jumping out of lofts and second story windows. Our barn had little to offer architecturally. It was a plain 3-story structure with a tin roof.  The stone and concrete ground floor that supported the 2 framed floors above, housed the various livestock. The top floors were home to several hundred chickens. It wasn’t until I was old enough to accept the responsibility of daily chores that I developed a new appreciation of our barn. 

Milking the family cow was one of my assigned chores, a task I did under duress during the deep days of summer. The barn was hot, the air thick and heavy, and seated by her udder with my head resting on her flank I would be smacked in the face repeatedly by her tail flipping from side to side to remove the flies constantly settling on her. But on cold winter days it was an entirely different experience. I recall reading that a cow generates enough body heat to warm a small cottage. I don’t know if that is true, but I can say with certainty that the animal gives off heat. Sitting on that stool with my head pressed into her flank was like sitting in front of a heat vent.  There was no tail to worry about, and her teats warmed my hands better than any gloves could. Completing this experience were the kittens that seem to be found in every barn everywhere. Somehow they knew it was milking time and would gather around the milk pail in anticipation; I loved to watch them scramble over each other after I squirted them with a stream of milk. I think milking a cow one more time before my last breath will go on my bucket list.

In the years since leaving the farm I cherished the fond memories of a warm and intimate space, a docile cow, and a swarm of fuzzy kittens. Forty years later there was another barn in another place, with horses instead of cows and sheep. And once again I think of escaping the cold winter wind and relishing the warmth and the smells of the horses and straw in freshly cleaned stalls. (Note the focus on winter, and not the hot, sticky days of summer.) I should also mention that in this barn, my wife did ALL of the mucking...her choice. I got to enjoy the fruits of her labor.)

Beyond my personal experiences, I love barns for their architectural and historic qualities. I am drawn to the drama and the mood of a solitary barn, simple or elegant, sitting alone in an empty field, or the intimacy of a barn and several outbuildings, huddled together to create a family haven. I am especially fond of the rambling dairy barns, where one or more additions have been tacked on to the main structure, concerned only with function. The result? A mish mash of architecture and texture...much to my great delight. Looking at these rural icons, many of them now abandoned or a little more than storage facilities, I wonder about their stories, and the hopes and aspirations of the families they served when they were first conceived. I imagine the livestock in their stalls, cats milling about, and children running around, playing in the hayloft, the barns, elegant or simple, served a central role in the daily life of all members of the farm family.

It is sad to see so many of these wonderful structures fall into disrepair and treated with such little respect and appreciation for all that they have provided. Even the unpretentious tobacco barns with their simple lines and lack of any architectural flare stand as lonely reminders of a life that is quickly becoming only a memory.

STRENGTH AND COURAGE

I admire men and women of who demonstrate their strength, courage and humanity in their behavior as well as their words. They:

Lift others up, rather than put them down.

Recognize the worth and value of ALL human beings.

Are willing to acknowledge their own weaknesses and failures.

Accept criticism and respect differing opinions.

Have the courage to apologize when one is due.

Are aware of their own shortcomings and strength.

Are not afraid to ask for help.

Know how to balance pride and humility.
Speak the truth (this is tough for all politicians)

Value people for who they are, and not their social and economic status.

Do not bully and call others demeaning names.

Do not need constant affirmation and praise.
Do not need to belittle and mock others to make them selves feel and look strong.

Do not need to lie.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #32

ANOTHER VICTIM OF AGE or The Secret life of Walter Mitty

 

I have always enjoyed a rich fantasy life. As an only child growing up on a farm I was accustomed to being alone, either playing or doing daily chores.

Daydreaming, an older child’s version of “make believe”, was a way to combat boredom and become more than I was. Picking up stones from the driveway and batting them over imaginary fences with a piece of plaster lathing I became Mickey Mantle. Singing my way through five chicken coops while I gathered eggs transformed me into another Frank Sinatra. (I have no idea what my singing may have done to the egg production.). My heroic accomplishments in the first 18 years of life were nothing short of amazing. That small farm boy from South Jersey became the hero to fans all over America. And as I made my way through the years ahead my daydreams followed, adapting themselves to the changing circumstances. I became a star football player in college in spite of my size, a surviving doctor in a plane crash who saved the lives of other survivors, a famous artist living in NYC, or a victim of amnesia wandering around the country trying to survive, to name just a few of my fantasies. My retreat into these make believe worlds usually occurred when I was driving alone in the car for hours at a time, lying in bed unable to sleep, or waking up in the middle of the night worrying about ridiculous non-existent problems that only arise in the dark hours of the night and early morning.

I choose to believe that occasional daydreaming is a normal and common mental exercise that everyone engages in at one time or another.  I have no interest in learning otherwise. In fact I believe my occasional forays into the world of make believe have served me well, improving my psyche and mental health, in addition to fending off those useless night time worries. But to my great dismay, for the past few years it has become increasingly difficult to retreat into these fantasy worlds, and I’m convinced it has to do with my age.

Regardless of the absurd plots, all of my daydreams have had an element of possibility to them, albeit quite miniscule, and they were all age appropriate. Now, approaching my 79^th birthday, it is more challenging to come up with a heroic plot for someone this age. Oh I still do it, but far less often, and with more modest accomplishments. This is one affect of ageing that I never anticipated. I feel blind-sided by it.

I shared this with my wife, telling her I was thinking of writing about the diminishing fantasy life in the 8^th decade. She quickly suggested that I avoid using the word fantasy, since it has acquired some carnal implications. I told her I was aware of that and planned to refer to “Walter Mitty” moments. She gave me a blank look, clearly having no idea who Walter Mitty was. When I explained he was a character who was always daydreaming in a short story by James Thurber and made famous portrayed by the late Danny Kaye in the movie, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, she offered that most people would not know that, and said I was really showing my age. Wow, that really helped.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #31 Looking back to look ahead

   Looking back to look ahead

1-30-18

1950 - Fifth Grade class photo

The relentless process of ageing finds expression in our bodies and our minds. I’m not sure which I find more challenging to deal with, the physical or the mental expressions. Recently I’ve been questioning everything I have always thought about myself, looking back on my life with a critical and skeptical eye, questioning my choices and behavior over the many years. Was I a spoiled only child? How did my friends and my cousins see me? Was I so centered on my own interests and goals that I ignored the needs and problems of others, especially my parents? And as an adult, have I been less than honest with myself regarding my relationship with others, and in my assessment of my art and my ambitions?

These are some of the questions I’ve been struggling with in recent weeks. I don’t have answers yet, but I expect they will eventually make themselves known. I also expect the answer to each of them will be yes and no, and I will come away from this enterprise with a better understanding of myself, both then and now.

The eighth decade began with an intense desire to go back and reconnect with the past, through family, friends, old classmates, and acquaintances. Each connection would trigger a new memory and/or bring a fleeting flush of excitement over hearing a voice or seeing a face after 50 years or more. It appears to be ending with the same desire for retrospection, but with a different focus. Now the goal is to reach a deeper understanding of the life I’ve lived, its purpose and meaning, to me and to my family and friends. I seek an honest, unvarnished understanding of myself, one I can accept and embrace with the hope it will enhance the quality of my remaining years.

In spite of all the attention to the past, my primary concern is the quality of the remaining years of my life. I want them to be filled with the same meaning and purpose as those that came before. Artists do not retire. They may rest a bit, and move a little slower, and perhaps walk away from the commercial community, but the words, the art, and the music never cease. I believe I have something worthwhile to contribute to my family, friends, and community, how ever modest it may be. It’s complicated, but I believe an honest understanding of my past is critical to the work I have yet to do.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #30

78 and counting – March 1917

I began writing about the process of aging nine years ago as I approached my 70^th birthday.  Reflecting on the arc of my experience, a pattern seems to be emerging suggesting an evolution in my response to this inevitable process. This 8^th decade can be thought of as a tunnel we must pass through, a little dark and scary in the beginning, but gradually becoming lighter and easier, with the promise of relief at the end. We enter knowing we are still young, and leave knowing we are old.

Some observations from my first 8 years in the tunnel:

1.     A combination of amusement and disbelief that I could be 70 years old.

2.     Confronting the question – What defines old age?

3.     A growing interest in my past – childhood, family, memories

4.     Reaching out to old friends and family

5.     Struggling with my work and with ambition, aspirations, and expectations

6.     Recognizing the physical and mental implications of ageing

7.     Eventually finding old friends becomes less important

8.     Slowly seeing and accepting myself as “old”

9.     Aging gradually transitions from an abstraction to reality.

10. Growing appreciation for the role of fate in determining our future, (There but for the grace of God go I.) and the opportunity to make it this far.

Aging is primarily a physical process. Remaining “young at heart” does

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #29

COMPRESSING TIME

October 2016

At age 77 I am aware of how compressed the remainder of my life is becoming and the tension this creates within me. There is still work to be done, aspirations to be met, and lofty dreams that refuse to acknowledge a limited future.

The problem is not that I have not done all that I set out to do, but that I continue to discover new paths that I want to travel, and more work that I want to do. My art is slowly improving, but there is so much more to learn.  Forty years ago I promised myself, and my patients, that I would strive to create the best work I am capable of doing, and I have not yet done that…I know I can do better. I recently had the opportunity to see some outstanding art that has inspired me to push the boundaries of my own work. At the same time I saw several pastel paintings of mine that were completed about 15 years ago, and realized I wanted to return to that medium that holds so much promise.

And there is more. I want to write. I am enticed by the satisfaction and fulfillment of conveying an idea, a message, or a memory, using words instead of paint. Writing has become as important to me as my art. Beyond the craft of writing, is the desire to share my story and the lessons life has taught me.  I believe I have something to offer, in spite of the doubts and insecurities that constantly hang over me. 

When I look into all the tomorrows through my rose colored glasses I see books and essays waiting to be written and paintings to be painted, a daunting challenge because I still need my quiet time for reflection as well as my afternoon nap. So much yet to do – so little time – so much insecurity and doubt – so much stress – and I would not trade it for anything. I consider myself fortunate to be right where I am.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #28

   TO BE MORE THAN I AM

March 2016

 

 

How do we become the person that we are? How much control do we have in defining ourselves? If we are fortunate, life offers us the opportunity to grow and develop as persons, to become what we were intended to be. The circumstances affecting our lives are many, and their influences range from the most minor, to the most significant: heredity, family, and financial and economic status all play a role, as does the unpredictability of fate.

How do we define ourselves? Occupation, personal beliefs, passionate interests, family, and socio-economic status are some of the criteria we can use, personal choices we much each make for ourselves.

Looking back I see now that I have always wanted to be more than I am. This has been especially true with my art. From the very beginning, I entered our local art world (Wilmington Delaware) with unwarranted boldness and optimism. I had grand ideas for my future that would remain with me for the next 35 years. It would be inaccurate to say that I’ve been driven in pursuit of these aspirations, but I have certainly been committed to be the best that I could be. I imagined my work being represented in several “good” galleries, as well as commercial success that went beyond my local market, and over the years have had a measure of success in this regard.

I can see now that many of my aspirations were naïve and some were unrealistic.  But it was that naivety that allowed me to achieve what success I have had with my art. Now, in the later years of my life, that naivety is tempered with reality, and the new challenge is finding a way to balance these sometimes opposing forces. After 77 years…the piss and vinegar and unbridled optimism and enthusiasm have given way to a more measured version of the same. The goals are not as lofty, but the commitment is still there. Perhaps this is the time to really focus on improving my craftsmanship and pushing at the borders of my comfort zone, in both the art and the writing. ?????

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #27

JUST SAYING

2015

 

Is life about becoming the person we are? Or perhaps the person we choose to be, or think we should be. Which ever it is, it is an ongoing experience, evolving, hopefully growing and maturing, and not remaining stagnant and stale. If my life has been a series of “becomings”, at this age, what more can I become?

I may have abused my work, leaning on it too heavily, relying on it to give meaning and purpose to my life. Over the past several months my art and my writing seem to be unable to meet the demands placed upon them. I find myself lost and drifting through the days with no direction and no deeply engaged purpose. I can’t fine the center. More than anything else, I want to be strong and resilient, sustained by an inner strength that enables me to withstand all the challenges of life’s circumstances.

We interact with life two ways, with our feelings and with our intellect, and we are best served when they are in sync with each other, in a healthy balance. Each has the power and the ability to overwhelm the other, or to lift it up when needed. I believe I have relied heavily on my feelings to direct and give purpose to my life, and on my intellect to hold me up when the feelings were failing me.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #26

Standing on their Shoulders    

2015

 They had little to give but themselves, which they gave freely and abundantly.  Josephine, who never knew her father, at age eleven had to leave her home, quit school, and move into an apartment with three older brothers to assume all household duties. Spartaco, known to all as Duke, lost his mother when he was eight years old. The youngest of four brothers, he left school after the eighth grade to work on the family farm, while his brothers and 3 older sisters completed high school and college or business school. Unrelenting hard work, financial insecurity, and more than their share of personal disappointments and illnesses defined their life on that small farm. Comfort and happiness were found in their large, extended family and friends.

It took forty years of living for me to fully appreciate all that these two remarkable people have given to me.

My mother died in December 1991, and my father in the autumn of 1995. I am 76 years old, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of my parents. I don’t know if this is unusual for someone my age, if it is because I was an only child, or if it’s because I am such a sentimental softy. I suspect the real reason is because they were remarkable people, and that they gave me so much. Ironically, in spite of all the writing that I do, writing about them is very difficult for me because I’m afraid I will not do them the justice they deserve.

I believe that I am the person I am because of my parents. Whatever I have accomplished of worth, or may yet accomplish, is the result of the gifts given to me by my family. 

The greatest of these gifts was a sense of self worth and self-esteem, which have allowed me to choose some of the difficult paths I have followed in my life. I believe there is no greater gift parents can give to their children than a strong sense of their own self worth.

My parents taught me about love; they taught me about tolerance and forgiveness, and they taught me about humility. They showed me that a person of worth treats everyone with the same respect and warmth, and that behavior toward others is determined by their humanity and not by their social position or importance.

They never spoke about these beliefs; they simply lived them because that is who they were. Pretention was foreign to them. I am convinced my life is a reflection of those two remarkable people, and I want it to be worthy of them. My greatest responsibilities have been to live a life honoring their gifts and to pass these gifts on to my children and loved ones. 

Where do I go from here?  The journey is far from over, and I don’t get to choose when it ends. I have lived the last 40 years embracing the life I felt called to live. Perhaps it is time to recommit myself to that task.

After 76 years I’m still standing on their shoulders.

THE CONDUCTOR AND THE ARTIST

THE CONDUCTOR AND THE ARTIST

 

We were listening to the Paducah Symphony Orchestra’s last concert of the season. I have absolutely no knowledge or understanding of music, let alone classical music, which puts me at a disadvantage when it comes to appreciating the scope and the nuances of the music. But I can appreciate the passion it evokes in the listener and even more, the passion so clearly obvious in the musicians and the conductor, especially the conductor. 

The musicians were, for the most part, limited to facial expressions imposed upon them by their instruments of varying bulk. But the conductor - his every emotion was betrayed by his body movements, and when visible, his face.  First he stood very still, and the orchestra was quiet, then his arms began to move gracefully in purposeful arcs and the music followed. Suddenly the baton, an extension of his right hand began to bounce and gyrate, pulling his body along with it, and the music kept pace with every movement. Here was an artist immersed in his work with such physical and emotional passion. I was envious.

I can be engrossed in my work, sitting or standing and I may walk away momentarily and pace, which I do quite often. But to be able to experience the sound and the physicality of my work like the conductor did, that is something else. The best I can do is to have music blaring from a CD, Johnny Cash, Luciano Pavarotti, or maybe Queen.   OK…I have a confession to make.  On rare occasions, when I am especially moved, I will actually dance (I insist on calling it dance) around the studio, but not until I have checked to see if Patience, or anyone else could see me.

That is the difference between a symphony conductor and a painter. The conductor can let it all hang out in front of his audience.  The painter, at least this one, must be devious and sneaky. That is my opinion and I’m sticking to it.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #25

A FUTURE BEYOND IMAGINATION

May, 2015

Who among us has not exercised their ability to imagine and/or fantasize about their future? From the time I had the mental capacity to do so I often imagined my future. I saw myself in medical school and imagined what life would be like as an intern and resident. I imagined my first medical practice years before It came to be, and when Patience and I decided to move to the country my mind was filled with notions and images of country living. I was living in Paducah months before I was living in Paducah. What ever it was to be, I could envision the next chapter in my life or the next stage of the journey…until now.

Over the past several years the future has been quietly slipping away from me. I can no longer clearly imagine what it holds for me. I’m not even sure I know what I would like it to be. For the first time I have no long term plans to lean on beyond my current studio projects. It has occurred to me that my future is in the canvas on the easel or the watercolor in progress on my drawing table, or perhaps the essay on ageing that I have been struggling with for the past several months. I will occasionally get caught up in a gust of enthusiasm over a new project and reclaim at least some vision of what may lie ahead for me, but it is never sustainable. I’m being forced to do something I have never been very good at doing…living in the moment.

It is all a bit disconcerting.

Arch. Drawing #32

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #24 I Saw the Future

I SAW THE FUTURE

2014

The temperature that morning was well below freezing. Snow was falling at blizzard levels creating a near whiteout, covering the ice that had formed during the night.  By the time the dogs were ready for their morning pee several inches of snow was on the ground.  As always, Patience escorted ancient Mama Pajama out, worrying the old dog would have trouble with the frozen brick steps of the breezeway. There appeared to be an accumulation of snow on the steps, which to Patience’s dismay was actually frozen solid. Instead of her foot sinking into soft snow as expected, it quickly flew out in front of her and she found herself suspended in mid air, before landing hard on her back with her right arm hyper-extended behind her head.

Somehow she managed to crawl back into the house and call for help.  I knew from the sound of her voice there was a problem and quickly ran downstairs to find her lying on the kitchen floor just inside the doorway.   She was pale, sweating, and close to passing out from pain and nausea, and was unable to move her right arm without causing her severe pain. After several tense minutes the nausea subsided and I managed to get her upstairs and into bed, place an ice pack on her shoulder, and give her something for the pain.  We knew she had to go to the emergency room, but didn’t know how we could manage that.  It was still snowing hard, and the streets and both of our vehicles were covered with ice and snow. Unfortunately I had cataract surgery several days earlier and was under strict orders not to lift over 10 lbs. and not to bend at the waist.  As I looked out our bedroom window at the awesomeness of Mother Nature I never felt so helpless.  Until you are told not to do so, you have no idea how many times you bend at the waist in a normal day. I did not consider myself an “old man”, but that is exactly how I felt, old, helpless, and dependent on others.  At that very moment, with the winter theater in progress, I understood the full extent of what old age might be like for me in the years ahead.  My only comfort was in knowing that my current incapacitation was temporary, although that was no help to us at the time.

Fortunately our despair was blown away by the thoughtfulness of a friend who called to check on us.  When we explained our situation Jason immediately came and drove us to the Emergency Room.  Later, when Patience was cleared to go home, (no broken bones or dislocations) he picked us up and delivered us back to 803 Madison Street.

Was this experience a glimpse into my future?  I don’t know.  But I do know that in addition to being grateful for the thoughtfulness of a friend, I will be grateful for every day that I remain healthy enough to care for myself and those I love.  I will never take them for granted.  And should the day come when I am dependent on others, I can only hope there are friends and loved ones to help.

LOST IN THE MYSTERY - HOPE IN THE UNKNOWN

For most of my adult life I have struggled with my faith, traveling a path that has taken me from an outsider to an active church member and Sunday School teacher, to a man of absolute faith, to a skeptic, to an atheist, and eventually an agnostic. Seeds of doubt and skepticism have accompanied me through all of these stages.

My skepticism begins with the most obvious challenges to my sense of reason: an immaculate conception and the resurrection of Christ.  In spite of my efforts, I simply cannot suspend my belief in the laws on nature and accept this narrative that is the foundation of Christianity.

For the same reason, I cannot accept the Bible as the word of God.  I believe it to be a collection of writings and stories written by men in their attempt to understand life, and the world around them, and by men inspired by their contacts with the remarkable teachings of the historical Jesus.

When I consider all that we know about the cosmos, our own planet, and the intricacies of all living things, from the physical to the physiological, and try to imagine a God who could create it all, or a “grand designer” who could set it in motion, I ask myself, why would such an amazing being, capable of doing all of this, decide the only way to reach some of his creations would be to send a man, born of a virgin mother, to preach in one part of this world, ignoring the rest of the worlds population? And then have him killed to save all men and women? It makes no sense, and for me, God has to make sense.

I have been asked, isn’t it possible that there exist things that are beyond our capacity to understand?   The only answer is yes, that is always possible.  But if you take that line of reasoning, it is also possible that somewhere there are pigs that can fly.  The question is not only is something is possible, but is it probable.

I can accept the possibility of some impersonal being or force – a grand designer or God – being responsible for setting everything in motion.  The result of which is the world we live in, a world full of contradictions, where love and hate, and good and evil, exist side by side. Humans have the capacity to create and destroy, and to nurture and injure.   We also have the capacity to imagine something better, and to create for ourselves a god to explain what we cannot explain.  I cannot accept the possibility of God as an objective reality, certainly not the God of Abraham, as described in the Old and New Testaments.  If there is a God who loves us, he has a strange way of showing it.

Unfortunately, I need God, I really do, and that is a difficult predicament for me to be in. It would be nice to have an unwavering faith to lean on in difficult times – and in good times also.  There is considerable comfort in the idea of a grand divinity that cares for us and will listen to our whining, pleading, and praises.  I’ve tried to find that faith, chasing after it for too many years.  Once I thought I had, but it was not meant to be.

Unfortunately hard science, in which I place a great deal of trust, is unable to explain all that I have experienced.  For the past 40 years the foundation of my life has been my trust in all things numinous: instinct, intuition, and a devotion to a spiritual center within me.  I have embraced this mysterious center as my soul and am not troubled by its conflict with the scientific.  One would think that this is only a simple step away from God, and that may be.  But I have not been able to make that step, so I have found contentment in this unknowing, while I attempt to understand the width and breadth of the human spirit.  If there is a God, this is where he will be found.

I have absolutely no doubt about the power of faith and the belief in a caring and loving God.  History tells us the remarkable stories of men and women who have accomplished incredible feats in His name.  In my opinion, faith in a higher power mobilizes forces within our selves, rather than divine intervention from above.  But what if the only way to access that inner power is by believing it comes from beyond our selves?

No matter how I look at this, and I have been doing so for all of my adult life, I end up in the same place…a spiritual life grounded in mystery… the mysterious unknowing.