greathotshave
A Great Hot Shave @ Home
I felt an extraordinary peace having sat next to this human on my ride to work. I had intended to meditate, which usually induces some calming on my mind and spirit. Instead, on sharing some time with Eric, I experienced something more profound and yet so very simple.
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A Great Hot Shave @ Home turned 11 today!
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“Mull isn’t what it used to be.”
Part 2 of Living the Dream: Scotland
Our final dinner in Scotland was in Paisley, near the Glasgow airport. Two ladies senior to ourselves had been talking about movies and books--my attention drifted in and out of eavesdropping as we quietly ate our Cullen’s Skink. We both stifled laughter when we heard one of them adamantly utter the phrase that is my title for this post. What could it possibly mean?
Sixty years earlier, my folks took us out to visit my mother’s clan in Idaho by train. What an amazing way to travel: watching scenery scroll by horizontally from farmlands to badlands to mountains. You could walk to various cars, including the Vistadome, which allowed a view of the clouds overhead. So it was with great anticipation that we began our pilgrimage to the Isle of Iona by the Oban Express train from the Glasgow train station.
In no way similar to the trains I have ridden in the States, the basic experience remains and held me firmly for the three hours it took to get to our next transfer point. We passed Loch Lomond in much clearer weather, exchanging smiles at our good fortune and plain joy of this mode of travel. We drank from our water bottles and ate digestives (cookies) we had brought along. Jessie had her heart set on fish and chips at a certain vendor in Oban that had been recommended.
When we arrived, we wandered the lovely seaport and checked in at our hotel.
It was so nice in Oban, I started to question the wisdom of not staying longer. Would we really be spending five nights on this little island? Would I be able to just sit and meditate and explore the “thin place” for which it is noted? All these second thoughts! But the next morning we caught the first ferry to the Isle of Mull to continue the pilgrimage.
As we’d been expecting, the weather turned more Scottish--rainly and blustery--on the ferry to Mull. We were happy to have light, rolling luggage to manuever to the bus stop at the ferry stop. Soon we were onboard a double-decker with return fare at a price that halved what remained of our British cash, with a very thin chance of converting our US money for more. The likelihood of returning to Mull to see the monastery and other sights was cut off by this monetary concern. Thus, the question of how we were going to fill all this time at Iona weighed on my mind.
The ride in the rain seemed harrowing, along these single lane roads with turnouts every eighth of a mile or so that allowed cars traveling in opposite directions to avoid each other. Despite the modern trappings of the bus, Mull seemed to be a passage into the past, where sheep or hairy coos grazed in yards to keep the lawns neat. We passed small, lonely lochs and through desolate areas that reminded us of the passage through Glencoe a few days earlier.
Time passed slowly even though the bus seemed to be moving, at times, at a horrendous clip. Of course, it was anticipation and fascination with the whole idea of island life. Mull has a population of around 700, yet it is the second largest of the 700 islands that are part of Scotland, which is itself about the size of South Carolina. But “Mull just isn’t what it used to be.”
When we reached Fionnphort, the sun once again peaked out from the clouds and we could actually see Iona in the distance across the water. The apprehension of what would we do evaporated the closer we came to the island. We had this small, magnificent island to explore!
Looking back from the lane on which our hotel was established, we saw the first of several rainbows that popped up during our stay.
At one time,we had considered staying in a shepard’s bothy at the Iona Hotel at the far end of the island. Only a 200-foot walk to shower and toilet. But friend Roy Smoot steered us toward making reservations at the Argyll Hotel, and we even paid extra for the ocean view. As soon as we looked out that window, we knew we’d made the right decision.
The dining room disproved the adage that you wouldn’t get good food when there’s a great view. Every morning we sat in this charming dining room for a wonderful breakfast, and on a couple of evenings for dinner. The staff were personable but unobtrusive and always ready to serve. It was one of the best hotel/lodge stays of my life, not just of this trip.
After close to three hours by ferry, bus, and ferry, we dropped off our things, marveling at the location so close to the water, with picnic tables and garden out front. We took a walk through the main part of town. We found the bothy and were incredibly relieved we had not taken that route. It was our anniversary as well as a pilgrimage. And that is how I resolved the questions in my heart about what we could possibly do with so much time on a small island:
First, and foremost, I was there with the one person in my life who shared this dream unfolding in the present moment and who understood what it all meant.
Second, we would do what we always did in the presence of the blue and green of nature. As John Muir preferred to describe it, we would saunter the trails that presented themselves willingly to our well-booted feet. And it was glorious.
Again, no day-by-day travelogue here. We found an ancient golf course, rugged and colorful coastlines, panoramic views from high pastures filled with sheep, and peace. We walked through a light drizzle to 9PM services at the Iona Abbey (established 563 AD).When we stepped out, the rain had stopped and the stars were undiminished by so few lights so far from large cities. We could see the Van Allen Belt’s countless stars. As we were seated in the front garden of the Argyll, a man and his two sons, dressed in kilts, lead a women’s reading group to the hotel and serenaded all by playing their bagpipes. Unexpected blessings were easy to be had and all-too-soon came to an end.
And so we rode the ferry, then caught the bus, another ferry, and then the train to Glasgow, then a cab to our last hotel stay. And we found ourselves in Paisley pondering the question raised by the ladies at the next table. The mystery of what changed in Mull is going to have to remain what it is.
On our first day, jet-lagged and unable to check in, we wandered beneath the gaze of Edinburgh Castle along the green parkway. We came upon a bench in partial shade as I didn’t have a cap to protect my forehead from the sun. A man sat there and began talking to us. His eyes were the same pale blue as Jessie’s father’s eyes. We would see a number of such men in the days that followed. He was quite friendly but reserved, happy to share his city with us.
Now that is a mystery to savor: how we just happened upon this man on that bench at that particular time, to be touched by his courtesy to strangers from a strange land.
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Living the Dream: Scotland
Our trip to Scotland was more than a grand celebration of an anniversary. We celebrate on the fives at Cape Cod and Glacier National Park. We have been To Italy and Spain on an amazing pilgrimage. This trip was something we’ve talked about for most of our 45 years of marriage. It starts with the fact that Jessie is a MacAlpine, possibly descended from the first king of Scotland, Kenneth Alpin. We joked that she would come into her inheritance, which, of course, would include a castle. But over the years the idea has permutated into various forms. About twelve years or so ago, we started adding the Isle of Iona to the mix. Last year we pulled the trigger, leaving a major part of planning to Gate 1, with it’s 10 Day Classical Tour of Scotland. We added a five-night stay at the Argyll Hotel on Iona.
Zach and Libby had done a four-week trip, on their own, of Ireland, Scotland, England, and Paris several years ago. In particular, they visited Iona and so we knew that was a tricksy leg of our journey. We took their advice to heart and decided to travel light, using just two standard carry-ons plus a backpack and my tech bag. Part of this concept was also to carry lighter clothing that would wash and dry quickly at our hotel. At one point, we would be leaving Glasgow by train, then stay at Oban on the western coast, to catch a ferry, then a bus, and then another ferry. Finally, we would walk to our hotel on Iona, so handling larger luggage would have been work.
The Eddie Bauer Outlet store, also recommended by the kids, was our main source of clothing and hardware with savings between 50%-70% on everything.
Once we landed in Edinburgh, exhausted because our seats on the overnight United flight wouldn’t recline an inch, we weren’t on a vacation as much as realizing a dream that went beyond expectations. First of all, except for rain during a cruise on Loch Lomand, the usual wet and windy weather for which Scotland is infamous was at a minimum the first week and almost nonexistent on Iona, the second week. That’s not to say there weren’t dramatic skies filled with clouds that often matched the wild landscapes of the Highlands, or it would have been disappointing. But we had not considered any need for sunscreen!
Our first evening in Edinburgh, we met our tour master and companions. As everyone went around the room introducing themselves, we were a good mix of tour virgins and Gate 1 vets. The couple seated next to me at the dinner table, mentioned they were on their honeymoon having gotten married two days before. On September 14. When we mentioned our anniversary was also the 14th, another couple rose and shared that they also married on that date. What are the odds?
Our tour master was terrific, filling us in on Scottish history as well as where the nearest toilets were. He and the driver handled every odd complication with aplumb. On our way to Edinburgh Castle, the streets were blocked due to filming of a Fast & Furious movie. He had a very British sense of humor and handed out goodies like Witmer’s biscuits and samples of IRN BRU, an orange drink. He often quoted William Topaz McGonagall. Truly awful poems.
I don’t intend to give a blow-by-blow, stop-by-stop travelogue here. But here are some photos from the tour:
At one point on the road, our bus came along railroad tracks and then train cars. To everyone’s delight, we overtook the steam train that has become known at the Hogwartz Express. We passed it by and soon stopped in Glennfinden. We were told that a quarter mile hike to a look out would provide great views (as above) and the chance to see the train again.
Interesting fact: the concrete for the building of this bridge was supplied by Sir Robert MacAlpine.
Our tour days were packed. We grew to know some of our companions well, with laughter and shared stories. The veterans remarked that ours was a very cooperative group, with no waiting for stragglers at the appointed time the bus was supposed to go. We ate well, with breakfast a guarantee each morning with plenty of wonderful options. At the Glasgow hotel, there was even a bottle of whiskey next to the pot of porridge! We kept an eye out for Cullen Skink, a chowder with smoked haddock as its main ingredient. We avoided haggis with no regrets.
At the farewell dinner in Glasgow, our tour host quoted Elbert Hubbard that “No man needs a vacation so much as the man who has just had one.” We had a remedy: Iona!
(To be continued)
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Flying with Terrence
Every once in awhile, I have been moved to spend a blog post on a friend. So, joining Steve and Dan, is my wingman in gaming for at least the past dozen years, Terrence Miltner. There’s a lot of nerd/geek stuff in this one, so it’s up to you to follow through on links provided for clearer understanding.
I just spent the weekend of March 23-25 with Terrence and Mona in their lovely bungalow in Forest Park, Illinois, to attend Adepticon, a very large convention for wargaming. I’d gotten in late that Thursday night and we had an X-Wing tournament the next morning, but after a generous taste of Papa’s Pilar rum, I felt right at home. The next morning’s conversation was about what pop culture influences we had growing up. Mine was definitely Marvel Comics, his was somewhere between DC and Star Trek: TNG. All in all, I do believe the codes of behavior exemplified by superheroes have served us well.
So, I’ve played games all my life, but other than a semester of playing bridge, the gaming life took an hiatus to life in the mundane world: getting through college, getting married, going to work, making a home, and having a couple of kids. That’s where the gaming life took on a reboot. I had been playing virtual games on our Atari computer for a few years, but face-to-face, in-the-moment play is much more soul satisfying. That restarted when the boys brought home Magic the Gathering cards. This intriguing mix of collectible cards (yes, I’d had plenty of baseball cards in my youth) plus a role-playing game was in my wheelhouse. It also helped that I didn’t mind losing to sons who hated to lose.
During those post-Wonder years, the three of us went through quite a few variations of collectible card games (CCGs). Then came Mage Knight, followed by Hero Clix. I was pretty hopelessly sucked into gaming. When the boys eventually left for college and the Army, I was on my own. I’m fairly resourceful, however, and well-acquainted with the Internet, so I found out that you could play other “kids” in the backrooms of comicbook stores at night and on weekends. The community was probably ten-to-fifteen years younger than me, but that presented no barrier. I got a lot of practice and actually won some games sometimes.
So there’s Terrence, a couple of tables away, playing in a Hero Clix tournament, when he sees me looking at him with a wondering look. He mouths: “ALA?” And we both grin. To have someone to have so many things in common, a specialized language of gaming, makes going to work bearable when all else is in tatters. Over the years, we have introduced each other to an assortment of board games as well as collectible miniatures games (CMGs) as well as sharing the ups and downs of life while at work conferences as well as gaming conferences. We have supported each other during periods of unemployment as well which is a good test of friendship as some people think of the condition as contagious.
In 2015, I was honored to be part of his wedding party, where the theme was the wedding of Sherlock Holmes’s Dr. Watson from the most-recent adaptation, Sherlock, the one with Benedict Cumberbatch. (Terrence is in the middle of that photo, his brother Brian the bookend on the right.) There was no clinking of glasses to get Terrence and Mona to kiss. Your table had to solve a mini mystery! (I would like to make clear that the two of them need no excuses to kiss but they’ve been to enough weddings to know how to circumvent the obnoxious. They are well matched.)
For too short a period, we had a play group that met monthly to try out new board/miniature games or play old favorites. One night I remember well, for playing Battlestar Galactica, a few drinks and we were all role-playing the characters a bit too stridently but there was always a lot of laughter, to be sure. Winning is important but it isn’t the only thing.
Terrence, however, is a gamer of quite a different magnitude than me. Not only in terms of the variety of games played and amount of time playing, but in terms of conference attendance (the above photo of name tag collection should suffice as proof) in support of games and related activities.
He is a high-ranking member of an organization called Barfleet, which provides a service for the geeks, nerds, and fans of all flavors in the after hours of a convention.
He recently chaired Capricon after many years as a support person on various committees and has been involved in Worldcon, which facilitates the awarding of Hugos to the best science fiction works of the year.
Terrence has a gift for listening that aids his gift to being able to talk to just about anyone. We were having lunch at Fado in Chicago and decided to have Irish coffee. The bartender boasted that the whiskey was particularly special and Terrence was off to the races. After all, as a Barfleet host, he, too, is a bartender! After some technical discussion about favorites, we received a free shot of named whiskey. Later, Terrence spied the bartender fiddling with a bottle of Jameson that was like 100 years old or whatever. Yep, another free shot for Terrence and his friend. (As Terrence is wont to say, if you’re going to drink all day, you better start early.)
This gift really came home to me as we walked around the booths and corridors of Adepticon this year. (This was the next day, after we both had done abysmally at the Hoth Open X-Wing tournament.) He knew a lot of people and seemed determined in introducing game designers to vendors or podcasters, which is a growing edge of game development. He is an ambassador of gaming in every sense of that word.
He also is a true friend. I am blessed indeed.
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Travels with Jessie
It was February 8 and I wrote:
“We are sitting on the thirteenth-floor balcony in Tower II of Portofino in Pensacola Beach. The sun came out this February afternoon, much needed. We are living the dream that carried us through a major event in our shared life that was in full throttle a year ago. We not only had our home of twenty-two years up for sale but were negotiating buying a condo several states away. The culmination of two years of planning and effort, we were going to retire and join Zach, Libby and grandson Lincoln in Columbus.
“Now we are looking out over the two-mile wide strip of land that extends to the distant beach town of Navarre where we can see the calmer waters of the sound to our left (north-ish) and the perpetual waves of the Gulf of Mexico on our right. Down that strip of land, if you didn’t know better, you would swear much of it was covered in snow. But that’s just the white sand of the Gulf National Seashore.”
I would have written more but the rest of our vacation distracted me.
Our second night on the road found us in Paris, Tennessee with Bob and Tamara MacAlpine and Bob’s mother Betty (back, right).
The original plan was to just spend three to four weeks in Pensacola, and that dream was enough to keep us sane during the insanity of waiting for bids on the condo and on our house to work through. It evolved, however, into what turned into a 23-day, 3,455-mile odyssey through ten states and visits with 23 people. Quite a few friends had relocated to various parts of the south. It just seemed like an opportunity to see them and share our adventures in migration; too good to pass up.
The plan evolved so much over 2017, it eventually included being at my brother’s place to greet my 91-year-old mother, who had decided to get away from gloomy Illinois and live in sunny Tampa with Wayne and his family.
If I do say so myself, it was a great plan that had room for improvisation which is something Jessie and I appear to have a knack for. On the very first day of the trip, one of the longer stretches to get near Paris, Tennessee, we decided about halfway there to take a break. The Jim Beam Distillery didn’t take us far off our track and it was just what we needed on a dreary cold day in Kentucky. I was a bit surprised to hear Jessie suggest taking the tour so she gets full credit for a great decision.
We learned a lot about the process of making bourbon and had some samples at the end of the tour. We also received a great tip for where to have lunch, again, along the route. Great Bourbon Burger at The Whistle Stop Cafe, Glendale, KY.
We get back in the car and just wonder: how do such things come together like that?
Driving together would bring back memories of many road trips we’ve done over 43 years of marriage:
Backpacking trips to the Smokies
Camping and backpacking in Wisconsin’s Kettle Moraine areas
Camping in Yellowstone
Camping in Kentucky
Business at Opryland Hotel then a 5-day camping trip in the Smokies
Camping with the kids in the Badlands and Custer State Park
Caving and camping with the kids in Missouri on the way to the grandparents in Arkansas
I’m sure we had some disagreements here and there about one thing or another, but mostly we just felt grateful for the chance to relax and be in the embrace of Mother Nature. Very often we were two bodies with the same mind.
The Orlando resort we stayed at with brother Wayne and family. We were there to see our nephew, Sean, swim a huge meet. With a new age bracket comes lower finishes but he is pretty damn fast!
Dixie Crossing! My Holy Grail moment, waiting outside to be seated and eat Rock Shrimp!
I think that is why after being in cities like Tampa, Orlando, St. Augustine (though barely), Savannah, and Charleston, our favorite stop besides Pensacola, was our four-day “retreat” on Edisto Island in the ACE Basin, South Carolina. The VRBO cabin we rented for four nights reminded us of Fugowee,* a hunters cabin we owned for four years near Lone Rock, Wisconsin. Both were rustic and surrounded by pine trees that left a carpet of pine needles on the ground. We rode through tunnels formed by live oaks on my new favorite state road SC 174 constantly and our bikes did the same at Edisto Beach State Park and Botany Bay Colony Plantation. In the evening, we sat in the screened Tiki Hut and watched the sun go down through the trees.
________
*Fugowee was on the unofficial street sign that marked the cabin. It was a so-call “Indian” expression shortened from “Where the Fugowee?”
This is the bike trail at Edisto Beach State Park and below is the beach at Botany BayColony Plantation.
Our Southern Tour was a wonderful mix of touching base with other folks who have moved (some of whom also retired), learning about how they are coping with the changes, and with immersion in the constantly changing natural world. Of family transitions and re-connections. Of beaches strewn with huge live oaks whose shallow roots where no match to hurricane winds. Of the changing of the guard, when night creepers and such end their cacophonous chorus and the raucous call of ducks takes over the pond yards from where we slept. Chaos and beauty in Nature as well as messy human relations finding grace in pondering how did we get here from there? That question is much more than our trusty Google Maps lady could answer save that we couldn’t have done this trip without her.
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The Road to Gahanna
On June 30 around 1:45pm, we watched the truck pull away from our house on Western Avenue in Glen Ellyn with virtually all of our earthly possessions. We would not see them again for nearly a week. Then we did the only sensible thing to do on such a beautiful pre-summer day: we got pedis!
Our two-year plan took a lot of dips and turns, but it was becoming a reality that would take another month to really sink in. After twenty-three years in GE, we were leaving Illinois to live in Ohio, close to where grandson Lincoln and parents Zach (our son) and Libby lived. They, too, were in a state of shock as well.
More than a move, of course, I had just left full-time employment for the last time a mere four days earlier. I have worked somewhere in downtown Chicago for more than forty years. I have already chronicled aspects of that in a blog about commuting. Jessie and I told ourselves we were ready for this big change but how can you possibly know?
We put a lot of work into the house on Western Avenue. It’s main frame was 100 years old as we redid the front “porch” (Jessie’s office for many years) to match more closely the rest of the main floor. There was a lot of painting--some done by professionals, the rest by Jessie. And we ruthlessly went through possessions for donation, sale (Half-Price Books) or disposal. But there’s a limit to what you can do. Imagine our dismay as we saw trickles of water in the basement the day before inspection. You remember May of 2017, the wettest in recent memory? That was the kind of roller coaster experience the previous five months had been. Did we set the right price? All kinds of questions and doubts plague you through the process. But we had an excellent agent who helped us through it. We had the right price at the right time and that’s really all that matters.
But here’s something: On the day I left the ABA, I would have had until the 30th to come up with new goals and go through the excruciating performance review process that everyone there loathes. I had actually set goals the year before with the intent of not being around to see if I met them! Yeah, it was that close.
Back in February with the house on the market for only a couple of weeks, we saw the home we are putting together in Ohio return to the market. We had seen a similar place in September. Unlike our move of twenty-three years ago where the pickings were slim and location to schools and the train downtown were keys, we really had a lot of time to consider our choice. We also had high hopes of having a view of a forest and a walkout basement this time around. When such a home presented itself we thought it was all-too-soon but what was the likelihood another such one would come up?
We put the bid in and what? Someone else has bid on the place? Zach and Libby had experienced this when they bought their place three years earlier, outbid over and over. Columbus is a hot real estate market because renting is a veritable nightmare. We had some advantages in this process, however. We could cover the price (and then some) with our equity account. (I am proud to state we were mortgage free and paid down our credit card on a monthly basis for three years.) As it was a condo we were looking at, there was the matter of a special assessment needing to be paid off. After much back and forth, we owned a condo by mid-March.
We drove out to look over our purchase and brought some furniture and kitchen stuff for camping there. Since our guest bedroom mattress set was not going to make the move, we bought a new mattress set and had it delivered by a local store so we could sleep in comfort. It was grand, and the grandson loved it, too. The sparsely furnished main floor was a great place for him to run unimpeded. The forest did not look very impressive in March but we felt pretty good about the purchase.
I’ve done a fair amount of reporting and photography on Facebook about the nesting process that has been taking place. We have discovered the splendiferous Metro Parks of Columbus on foot and bike as well as begun our babysitting duties to help Libby get the Early Bird coffee cart going. This retirement business is exceeding expectations.
It’s sobering, however, to be so immersed in this big change while others have been going through hard times. My spiritual directee of five years passed away early in the month just as we moved. There had been hopes a lung transplant would prolong his life but a bout with pneumonia closed that door. Another good friend has been dealing with bad news about his health as well. My happiness is tempered by thoughts of friends going through rough times.
I have already found a mens’ spiritual formation group that meets monthly. We’ve joined the Wellspring Spirituality Network. I’ve played golf with Zach and his father-in-law. I have already won my first X-Wings game.
As it has been some time since I started this report and posting it now, there will be more to come in a vain attempt to catch up.
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Book Review: Mirror for the Soul
Once I understood the framework of how my Enneagram 7 space operates, I was better able to see why some people will avoid confrontations at almost any cost while I am somewhat comfortable with them. They just aren’t wired the same way I am. We go through life with a general assumption that we are all alike but so many times this assumption trips us up because we aren’t. As Alice Fryling explains in her marvelous Mirror for the Soul, while we all have many gifts, in each of us one particular gift outshines the others and plays a definitive role in our spiritual formation. The Enneagram provides a dynamic map of nine different spaces that are nearly analogous to the fruits of the spirit given in the Bible.
Alice makes no assumptions, taking the reader through a brief understanding of the history of the Enneagram and then step by graceful step expanding on how this tool for reflecting on one’s soul journey can deepen self awakening and encourage self growing. After each chapter, she provides questions to encourage group reflections on the material as well as a personal meditation for going deeper with the wisdom shared. This a truly contemplative approach, allowing each reader to digest what was presented and proceed at their own pace.
As Alice approaches all things whether she is writing or leading a workshop, she allows a spaciousness for self reflection. She provides many personal interactions from life as a spiritual director to illustrate how the Enneagrammatic framework can open one to a better understanding that begins inward and works outward.
As you proceed through the book, each Enneagram space describes a virtue, a gift from God, how that gift is overplayed by the false self, and by what grace ones true self, in a never-ending struggle, displaces the false self. For instance, my seven space is of Joy, a self-evident virtue. When it’s overplayed, I get caught up in a gluttonous anticipation of joy-giving activities in denial of any suffering that comes into my life. The gluttony aspect of the seven space isn’t just about activities that could be viewed as bad (alcohol/drugs, gambling, etc.) but good things (reading the Bible to the exclusion of works that encourage critical thinking, participating in every mission offered at church) that blots out the needs of people around me and makes me falsely believe that everything is okay. The grace that brings me back is Sobriety, the ability to take only what I need, to see the false self and not deny it but keep it in check by owning it.
Much more qualified people, like Richard Rohr and Jerome Wagner, who have written and taught the Enneagram, have praised this book. Rohr calls it a rich and unique contribution to Enneagram literature.” Wagner writes, “(Mirror for the Soul) is at the crossroads where the Enneagram and Christianity meet.”
Disclaimer: I received an advance copy of Alice’s book with the express idea that I would write about it. Jessie and I have known Alice and Bob Fryling for close to 20 years! I have been to several of the workshops she has given with Jessie, even helping play the videos. Alice was an indirect influence on my taking the Christos Tending the Holy program and becoming a spiritual director. So, of course she helped change my life for the better. As a result, I am sure this book can have an influence on your life for the better.
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Eric
I took a seat on Metra this morning and figured I would close my eyes, take deep breaths and meditate for awhile. But the conductor announced that the next stop, the front four cars would be off the platform and those wishing to disembark would need to move to the rear. After which, a soft male voice to my left asked if we were in one of those cars. He appeared to be of an age with Zach, so I smiled and explained that some platforms don't accommodate the longer rush hour trains. Yes, we were on the third car from the front. I figured that was that and closed my eyes.
He answered with a story about being on a train in Denmark (or Sweden) that loaded the front three cars onto a ferry that he inadvertantly missed. He told me enough details to show he trusted me with a particular level of disclosure but not so much to alarm me. I believed at the time, he wanted some reassurance the train wasn't going to throw him for a loop as the one had in Sweedmark.
I sensed this was a person who needed to converse. As a trained spiritual director, I know these things. I shared that I had been riding the train for more than twenty years and that it would be ending in two weeks. I kept smiling as our conversation covered my commuting experience (so recently detailed below, fwiw). His company is somewhere west of Glen Ellyn and his travels into the city have been limited but are beginning to increase.
When the conductor came by, he waved his ticket and despite my telling him the conductor was going to cover the lower level before addressing the upper level, he continued to watch the conductor. Nervous? He thought the water taxi would be very cool as well as the River Walk. When the conductor came by, focused on the upper level but opposite side, my new acquaintance waved his ticket and called to him. The conductor took the interruption with good grace.
When Metra's Big Lie was announced, Eric gathered his well-worn leather briefcase and started to stand. I assured him we were not at Ogilvie, that they've always lied about the next stop actually being Ogilvie. We were far enough forward that I was able to point to the railway workers leaving the train and walking across the yard, no station in sight. Yes, they really ought to save that message for after that stop. He sat and we talked some more.
Eric's politeness was remarkable. At each pause in the conversation, he begged my pardon if he was too curious or personal but always asked his question. Where was I going now that the house sold? He remarked I looked young for retirement. I get that. My ninety-year old mother, I told him, has less gray hair than I do, and my younger brother by two years is gray and balding. Luck of the DNA.
I did not ask him personal questions except for clariifications when he volunteered details about himself. We briefly talked about Social Security and the present political situation. He is resigned to not having any when he retires. I am sure he will be prepared as he seemed so solid and down-to-earth to me; vulnerable yet so bold as to talk so openly to a stranger.
The time passed quickly as I reflect on it now. We walked off the train and I pointed him toward the station. We shook hands numerous times at each false farewell; when he stood and passed me at our seats along the windows of the upper level of the train car, at the stairs when I caught up with him, until I was heading toward the walkway that leads to the water taxi and he to the escalators down to the street. I was smiling helplessly at the experience of the past half hour as I walked.
I felt an extraordinary peace having sat next to this human on my ride to work. I had intended to meditate, which usually induces some calming on my mind and spirit. Instead, on sharing some time with Eric, I experienced something more profound and yet so very simple.
As a trained spiritual director, I know these things.
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Reverie on Commuting
For nigh on twenty years, my daily ride into Chicago on the Metra West line has included a most singular and blatant lie: “Next stop: Ogilvie Transportation Center.” Within twenty seconds of this canned announcement, the train would stop in a railroad yard well outside of Chicago and let off some workers. It’s a terrible way to enlist trust, but there are also worse things I can imagine. I have great memories of my forty-plus years of commuting. I’d like to share it if you would indulge me.
When Jessie and I first moved to Chicago in 1974, we lived in Hyde Park. Once I’d given up on grad school, we rode the Illinois Central (IC) downtown. Back then, you could open the windows on some of those cars, and a good thing, since people could smoke on the train! I would get off before the main stop at Randolph and walk down Jackson Blvd to an old building that was across the street from the Willis Tower (Sears Tower, back in the last century). I was at a training session on 550 W. Jackson a few weeks ago, a few blocks west of where I worked so long ago, and saw Lou Mitchell’s Restaurant where my colleagues at Nelson-Hall Publishing would have breakfast for lunch.
When we moved to East Rogers Park, I caught the Howard (Red Line now) train and changed at Belmont Avenue to a train that would go elevated to let me off west on Madison. Nelson-Hall moved to Canal Street, so the walk was much shorter than from the Michigan Avenue IC Station.
The CTA was quite the cattle car experience:
A woman sitting next to me on a crowded car had passengers of the six-legged variety
Afternoons in the summer would have a fair share of happy, drunken Cub fans
A late night ride I sat motionless while an angry man vented at me, taking three stops before he was escorted from the train by CTA police
The urinal smell of stairwells in and out of CTA stations
Long, very cold stands in the winter waiting for delayed trains and watching full ones roll by “express”
A job change put us both at the John Hancock Center for a couple of years, so we drove Sheridan Avenue to Lake Shore Drive. It could be a very hairy drive in the winter. During better weather it was all a matter of minutes getting ahead of the eventual slowdown that meant being fifteen minutes early or twenty minutes late. The Magnificent Mile was quite a change from the southwestern corner of the Loop! But it didn’t last.
My next job took me to Lake and Michigan, Contemporary Books. Back to taking the Howard L, but all the way to the Randolph stop, I believe, and a short walk to CB. When we moved to West Rogers Park, I had choices of taking a Touhy bus to the Howard Station or a different bus down Western to the elevated CTA station in Lincoln Square. With the variety of ways to travel, I was immersed in the diversity of the City of Chicago. I loved it.
After nineteen years and with two pre-teens in tow, we moved to the western suburbs and Glen Ellyn. I could walk or ride my bike to the Metra station there and always get a roomy seat on a train similar to one my father used to ride into the city from Downers Grove. Only when there was a Championship celebration of one sort or another, were the trains ever packed beyond seating capacity. Delays were rare but all-the-more annoying because unlike the CTA, there was a schedule, and the next train, particularly at night, could be an hour away. I also was on a train that ran over someone, sad to report, and that was an automatic 90-minute delay while the police and EMT people handled the terrible situation.
Rare occurrence: note the blue engine. A West Line Metra train stalled, so our train pushed it into the station. Not all the cars of the pushing train aligned with the platform, so we had to march through a few cars to get out.
The biggest contrast, of course, was the change in fragrance: urine in the CTA exits, honeysuckle getting off the Metra. (I do believe the CTA has addressed this issue in the intervening 20 years; feel free to correct me on this.)
From the Ogilvie Transportation Center (OTC), to get to the River North area of Chicago where I worked at the American Library Association, you crossed the river twice, either walking or taking the 125 bus. Not sure when, but halfway through my tenure there, I discovered the Chicago Water Taxi (CWT) run by Wendella Boats. What a treat to walk down Michigan Avenue and catch the boat to ride downriver to a dock near OTC. (This was well before FitBit took over my commuting decisions.) The service was wonderful; a real treat on a foggy morning. One summer their Christmas in July event brought forth kazoos for all riders along with no charge.
Sometimes, getting off at Clark Street from the Chicago Water Taxi included dealing with River Roast’s hostility toward commuters in the form of barriers.
When I returned to the workforce in 2012, I was walking again, mainly following Wacker Drive along the river to the American Bar Association, which was just across the Clark Street bridge. Just the right distance for walking to and from work. On rainy days, the water taxi had a dock on the north side of the river between Clark and LaSalle, so I could avoid most downpours. And the building’s ID was recognized by Wendella for riding without needing a ticket! One of my fellow staffers loved the taxi so much, she invited everyone to celebrate her birthday with pizza and ice cream on the boat, ferrying down to Michigan, back past Clark to OTC dock and finally to Clark. Very nice on a warm sunny day on the boat’s upper deck.
A Photo Essay on the Chicago River Experience
Construction at the river bend: 155 Riverside (right of center) and 444 River Point (right and completed, below).
Above, the longest section (The Boardwalk) at the end of what allows a continuous walk from Navy Pier has a ramp winding down to a lane along a hill of grass. Below are piers and floating gardens of The Jetty under construction.
Completed in November 2016, you could walk it with a strong feeling of ownership because not many others made the effort (Jetty shown above). Below, shooting through a tree planted along the ramps of The River Theater.
No stopping for traffic as you walk under the bridges.
The final piece of the walk to and from work is the plaza at 155 Riverside: two levels of walking along the river after it turns south. It has (below) a seating area for watching river traffic and maybe concerts. They actually planted grass so you could take off your shoes at lunch and commune with nature. The second photo below shows an accessible ramp way with plenty of greenery to an upper plaza.
My last year for walking to work has been the best. For two years, riding the CWT, I’ve been watching the construction of the river walk between State and Lake Streets (going along Wacker, the river curves so this is literally true even though the streets are perpendicular at State and Lake). Furthermore, the construction along the bend in the river has been spectacular. When I finally began walking it starting in November, I couldn’t get over the difference: no street crossings and the sounds of the streets muted. No visual movements of cars and other vehicles, no exhaust smell. A real feeling of peace along with the water despite getting close and personal with the abundance of debris in the water is the reward for taking the long way home.
With Spring, the route is becoming more popular to commuters and not just the occasional runner. There are trees and plants, a fountain, and ramps. The final course toward OTC takes one over the bridge between the new towers at 444 River Point and 155 Riverside, where you can continue along the riverside. The plaza is so inviting with trees and plants everywhere. It beats walking along Canal Street lined with pathetic trees attempting to overcome the watering of various pets in the vicinity.
Over all these years, the one consistent aspect of these daily hikes is the vast community of people going every which way to their own destinations. I am sure you can score the migratory-like movement to something like Darth Vader’s March (Imperial Attack?) but I tend to feel the Ode to Joy animating us as we walk. Yes, today many are hunched over cell phones, making quite a difference in the way people perform this ritual than when I first ventured forth. Many are listening to their own soundtracks, too. But I’m content to listen to the sounds of the city, smell the chocolate when the breeze blows in the right direction, and look around like a tourist at the rise of so many walls of glass, steel and stone.
I would be remiss to overlook the major change from forty years ago: Richie Daley’s emphasis on greening the streets of Chicago as well as the gentrification of the downtown area have had an incredibly positive impact on being downtown..
I still prefer hikes in the green and blue of mountains and hills. Someday I will miss walking the great city of Chicago; the myriad memories I have are cherished beyond mere words.
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Bullying: A Christian Tradition?
As I ponder my three-year old post about Christian Cyberbullying, I see so-called Christian legislators and televangelists have gotten all tripped up about same-sex marriage, rape, and their total lack of understanding about a woman's reproductive rights indicates just how deeply unconscious this aspect of bullying goes. What often comes unwittingly across is that God and Jesus are bullies, or at least the ones who will carry out the threats made by so many of these spokespeople of Family Values. When these people object to the way others react to what they see as merely exercising their religious freedom, they say they are being persecuted and bullied. So they obviously feel that bullying is wrong but why don't they view their own behavior this way?
This seems like the perfect opportunity to bring up that verse about the "log in one's eye," but let's refrain and just meditate a little bit on this concept of a Christian tradition of bully-like behavior.
I remember going to a youth group with my cousin in their hometown in Iowa back in the early 60s. At one point in the evening, we were all supposed to put our heads down and raise our hands if we wanted to be saved. I didn't raise my hand, nor my brother nor cousin because 1) I felt I was saved, and 2) I didn't like being pressured. (I should note that my uncle, who innocently sent us along to this youth group was a minister. He enjoyed our outrage when we got back from this ordeal.) As we "held out," we were admonished with various quotes from the Bible, one of which stated that our pillows would turn to stone. (That's the one that over the years has stood out in my mind.) We left feeling humiliated and wondering what kind of God is this? Evangelicals to this day appear to have no trouble with such forms of bullying behavior. They are, after all, trying to save everyone.
I wouldn’t have a problem with that save that I am hard-pressed to find any teaching in Scripture that advocates that the ends justify the means. Please feel free to help me out with that in the comments below. However, I’m not going to hold my breath.
What was accomplished that evening made me harden my heart toward the church, quite the opposite of what was intended. I've had problems with the Evangelical Agenda ever since. I was a philosophy/religion major in college, despite my distrust of religious zealotry. When the Jesus Freaks on campus called out, “Get high on Jesus," I called back, "get high on reality." I read about hermeneutics* and undertook meditation in the Vedantist tradition during those years that have made it easier to co-exist with zealotry and even participate in my own zealotries.
Life is filled with little ironies, however, as I belong to an Evangelical Presbyterian church, but I am what would be characterized as a Contemplative Christian. My approach to Biblical study is an interaction with Scripture, looking for where I fit into God’s story (also an aspect of hermeneutics). Of course, I do the same with most books I read, as I tend to think God permeates all aspects of life and works through people whether or not they believe in Him. I would not have grown into this contemplative style without being in this congregation, so I have a lot of gratitude for this church despite the walls that seem to be in place.
I have attended Bible studies and small groups for twenty years, so I have a pretty good grasp of the situation and the modus operandi of Evangelicals in particular. In one such discussion of Jesus railing against the merchants in the temple, one friend, who identifies strongly with the Reformed Church, practically gloated about this image of Jesus using whips to chase away these sinners. This is his antidote to the “Jesus loves everyone” cheap grace paradigm.
Again, I have a very hard time thinking of Jesus as a bully. Fear is not his mode of developing relationships. Yet many of my peers and mentors in the faith have this intrinsic wish that fear of God was more prevalent in preaching and that people put more thought into the afterlife. Yet doesn’t the Bible constantly tell us not to be afraid?
Well, this post is not about bullying back. If someone feels shamed by what I’ve written, ponder what has brought it about but rest assured that pondering is all I want from your shame. Bullying begets bullying. The bullied Christian comes to accept the way in which he or she has been indoctrinated and sees no problem with the process. After all, they’ve been born again, saved. In that way, the Fundamentalist/Evangelical movement has traditionalized this bullying approach to conversion.
As someone said to me the other day, we find a lot of converted Christians among Evangelicals but much fewer transformed Christians. It’s not a judgment, it’s said with a sigh. Bullying doesn’t facilitate transformation. And in a sense, it creates the walls that hinder transformation. It’s like an initiation ritual that is required to step within the comfort of the wall (the group of bullied converts) and that keeps you from stepping back through the wall to something more tolerant and strong, less fearful.
But you have to get to that place, of stepping through the wall, on your own. You have to be convicted through your own thoughtfulness and not bullied by suggestions from others no matter how well-meaning they may be.
__________
* Some definitions to ponder: Got Questions? and Theopedia
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September 2016 Retreat
The pictures I took on my fall retreat at Christ in the Wilderness (Stockton, Illinois, 23 miles east of Galena) speak for themselves but that won't stop me from adding some reflections on my experience. But these pictures at my first evening meal don't need anything more than I always take such a picture; I just wasn't expecting company.
I drove up again on Thursday night, getting in well after the sun had set. I stayed at Paul of Tarsus, which I haven't visited in my numerous stays at CitW. It's close to the top of a hill, so going to the meadows is a big commitment of going down and then back up. I've doctored a Google Map of the property to give you a better idea of the terrain and trails.
That morning was probably my favorite of all mornings I've ever spent at CitW because I haven't experienced such a fog there before. Jessie and I love the fog. When we were dating in college, we would put on ponchos and walk around campus when there was a thick fog. The dampness revealed hundreds of orb weavers in the upper meadow, their mandala-like webs glistening in silver when, on a sunny day, they are almost invisible. As the fog lifted, and the day got brighter, the moisture on the leaves and trees continued to sparkle.
When in doubt about the weather, I've trusted in my Columbia zip pants for at least 30 years if not longer (see pic below). What I really like about these light-weight, durable hiking pants are the short versions that don't have the zipper edge scraping my knees as I have seen more modern versions of zip pants. The next morning started out with those pants as it was quite cool and raining. I had my light-weight breathable rain jacket and embarked even as it was still drizzling because experiencing the elements is part of any good hike. I also knew I could shelter in the trusty gazebo if the rain was heavy or prolonged.
Being able to adjust worked out as the rain did go away and the sun danced in and out of a parade of dramatic clouds all day.
The string of brambles in the photo above would reach out and attach itself to my pantleg if I strayed to close to the edge of the path.
Even though I was not staying at Sabbath, I hiked the meadow behind my favorite hermitage to rekindle memories of previous visits.
With Thee Oh Lord, is life in all its fullness
And in Your light, we shall see new life
The Taize song always slips through my lips when I walk in that meadow just as it does when I walk a labyrinth.
It struck me halfway through my all-too-brief time that this could be the last time I visit for a long while. That added poignancy to my walks and thoughts as I watched the ever-changing clouds scud overhead. The silence, the therapy of green and blue.
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For Bob Sakamoto
I have tried half-heartedly to get this message to Bob Sakamoto, MacMurray College alum and former Chicago Tribune sportswriter on and off for the past ten years. He recently appeared on the cover of Mac News! I had tracked him down to the sports communications department of DePaul University before Mac News came out but couldn’t get an email address for him. I have sent messages via his LinkedIn and Facebook pages with no response.
All I have is a phone number which I am somewhat reluctant to use. I will endeavor to put this paper up and see what happens. I think he will appreciate the irony if he can slog through it.
Some background? This is my Unit One paper for Tending the Holy (TtH), written in late November 2005. TtH is a two-year course training people to be spiritual directors through the Christos Center for Spiritual Formation. I went completely over the top and do not recommend that anyone in the TtH program follow this example. Not only did I submit an overlong paper but because I knew my facilitator was not a sports fan, I included pages of corollary material.
I have given talks about this paper at TtH retreats where I have facilitated the training of spiritual directors. For what it’s worth, this paper represents the whole message. It shows how looking back over the course of decades the seemingly random dots can be connected in amazing ways.
Here it is: Soxtober
#Bob Sakamoto#chicago white sox#Christos Center for Spiritual Formation#donavan vicha#MacMurray College#depaul university
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Consequence Free
Wouldn't it be great, if no one ever got offended
Wouldn't it be great to say what's really on your mind
I have always said, "All the rules are made for bending"
And if I let my hair down, would that be such a crime?
Great Big Sea, Consequence Free
Revival, Reformation, whatever you want to call it--some kind of spiritual awakening is going on in America. And it doesn't look good for white, privileged males. So it goes (and about time). I see this coming in the popularity of Donald Trump who seeks to rally people who feel like their rights to express whatever comes into their dim brains are threatened by "political correctness." I point this out as an instance of it's always darkest before the dawn. I, for one, await this dawn eagerly but worry that it's going to be a long wait.
The trend of using labels like this has been with us for a couple of decades now:
Political Correctness: The passing of the Americans with Disabilities Act began an awakening concerning the rights of people with handicaps. Yes, the price of making hospitals, stores, hotels, and so on more accessible to people with handicaps was costly but certainly the additional patronage of these people was worth it, right? Why was there such a commotion over this piece of legislation? A by-blow of the reactions to this new group of people who exerted their desire to be recognized out of common decency was the coining of the term political correctness. From there, it was with a wink that PC was attributed to attempts by other minorities to claim their rights: African Americans, the LGBT community, women, immigrants, and so on.
Pro-Life: How can anyone be against such a thing? But it seems only to apply to a very narrow definition of life: that of fetuses. The same group doesn't support sex education save for abstinence, contraceptives, single motherhood, food stamps, health care, marriage rights, or any attempt to support people who have fallen on hard times. On the other hand, they certainly support your right to kill people with guns and the businesses that develop weapons of war.
Confederate Flag: Don't expect subtlety from racists. This flag grew ever more popular during the 60s in reaction to the Civil Rights Movement, plain and simple. Perhaps the Civil Rights Act gave so much is a measure of the magnanimous nature of the African American people that they let the "little things go." Or maybe they didn't. But the little things have a way of growing bigger, especially the ugly, festering little things like the battle flag of slave owners.
The All Lives Matter v Black Lives Matter is the latest attempt to dampen down the issue of police gunning down African Americans or the incredible statistics of incarceration of men and women of color in our prisons. I don't wish to water down BLM but I would point out that the exacerbation of the issue lies in the idea that words matter. There's a very clear difference in calling a person with a disability by the name of their particular handicap than using an adverb: the blind/sightless need special considerations v persons who cannot see need special considerations. The uproar is similar to the bogus idea of reverse discrimination.
Maya Angelou puts this well:
The powerful say, "Pull yourself up by your bootstraps." But they don't really believe that those living on denuded reservations, or on strip-mined hills, or in ghettos that are destinations for drugs from Colombia and Iraq, can somehow pull themselves up. What they're really saying is, "If you can, do, but if you can't, forget it." It's the most pernicious of all acts of segregation, because it is so subtle.
Color blindness and “We’re all Americans” misses the point as well. Black Lives Matter is about seeing someone as they are. It requires some empathy and when I apply empathy, I may need to ponder what I am about to say or be ready to learn something rather than double down when someone objects. As Anne Lamott has said “You can either practice being right or practice being kind.” Practicing the latter recognizes that what we say is not consequence free.
George Takei sums up nicely: “Freedom of speech requires a certain tolerance. Tolerance does not require acceptance. Strictly, it does not require civility either, but things work a whole lot better with civility.”
Oh, to be consequence free!
Wouldn't it be great, if the band just never ended
We could stay out late and we would never hear last call
We wouldn't need to worry about approval or permission
We could slip off the edge and never worry about the fall
For some, this could mean a very long, hard fall.
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Free-Range Childhood
The Board of Directors of Christ in the Wilderness met for the annual visit to the retreat center in Stockton, Illinois. We start every meeting with a prayer but for this extended time, our prayer experience was also extended. We read collectively, we listened, and went around the room to read individually. The guided meditation was particularly rewarding. At the end of that portion of our time, each of us shared what was going on as we reflected. This kind of deep sharing really binds a group together and helps the board function better. It reminds us Who is ultimately in charge of this ministry.
I'm not usually good at visualization and guided meditation but Sister Maria's voice just pulled me out of myself. The theme of the prayer was summer and the meditation focused on growing things like vegetables and fruit. The most vivid part was about apples. The instruction was to sit under the tree and taste the apple, but I found myself in the tree, plucking an apple and smelling the freshness as I bit into it. I could feel the breeze and sensed the height of the branch on which I was sitting.
It was a scene from my youth.
Up until 1962, we lived in a house on Ogden Avenue just west of Belmont Avenue. The backyard boasted two large willow trees, a vegetable garden, a kennel for three hunting dogs, and an orchard with apple, plum, and cherry trees. Normally fearful of heights, I had favorite perches in each of those apple trees. Our neighbor to the north had a huge lot as well, surrounded by blackberry bushes that marked the boundaries to a forest that ran along both our lots.
We were free-range kids back in the late 50s. We often played in that forest and even explored beyond it to the boundaries of the Morton Arboretum to the west. As I've seen one Facebook meme state: Lightning bugs were our curfew notice. As I pondered this and shared some of it with my fellow board members, I realized that this experience was foundational for my later love of hiking and backpacking in wilderness areas. I've written about the value of the Blue and Green previously. Should I be surprised then that I find myself on the board of a retreat center that owns 80 acres of lovely farmland wilderness and five miles of trails through it?
CITW may be a very small slice of solitude and silence when compared to hiking in the Great Smoky Mountains or the Eagle Cap Wilderness in Oregon, but it is quite sufficient on a retreat. Just as the guided meditation was able to take me back to those free-range days of a very happy time in my youth, the hermitages offer the same way back to the blue and green therapy my soul longs for.
It's sad to read that parents who allow their children some free-range privileges appear to threaten other parents who don't want their children to play unsupervised. I've shared with my mother some of the truly stupid and dangerous things we did on our youthful adventures. She laughs and says she knew. She told me that not only was she aware that we would ride on the back of a truckbed from which our neighbor's father pulled an array of lawn mowers, but that he was likely inebriated as he was driving. Obviously, I come from a long line of free-range children!
I am not going to take the well-worn path of bemoaning this cultural change. I just think we need to be careful about applying what works for you should be the norm for everyone else.
A free-range childhood also gets past whatever parental control is administered. If he or she doesn't go outside, there's access to the virtual worlds of the computers and videogames. It's the lesson of Jurassic Park: life finds a way.
It's pretty amazing what can come out of a guided meditation!
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A “Magic” Epiphany
I cannot recall a happier time in my life than when my older son married, right out of college. (OK, besides my own wedding and his birth!) What was so amazing was how composed he was in that tuxedo and centered so perfectly in the moment. The ceremony and reception were absolutely magical. They stood within a strong circle of friends, too, which reminded me of my own wedding and start of that combined life that marriage represents.
You had to be there to understand this, but at one point during the reception this group of young adults (including Zach and his bride) from Calvin College did this performance dance to the strains of "Everything She Does Is Magic." It was obviously choreographed and it seemed to be about healing. I was told later that it was a ritual that the theater group had created to heal a rift that had grown among the professors and students. (I'd be glad for clarification if anyone in that group cares to comment.) Among many magical moments of the weekend, that has resonated with me to this day. I experienced an extraordinary expression of grace and love in that ritual. It gave me hope that these two kids had a great foundation for happiness and for times of hardship.
A year and three quarters later, that groom was heartsick and moving in with us. That bride just suddenly wanted out. Nothing anyone could do would make her change her mind. I loved that girl as well, a daughter grown, but the last time we spoke, she was a total stranger. I wanted to hate her for what she'd done to my son, but I felt sorry for her, too. She obviously had baggage that she preferred to carry unexamined than to have someone who loved her help to unpack and work through it.
She was out of our lives. He couldn't go there, wondering how could his heart have been so thoroughly blind or worse, deceived. He went to work and came home to his old room. In the winter, he helped shovel the drive, in summer, mowed the lawn. We played games and watched movies and cooked dinners. And we cried together. There is healing in tears.
I confess it was wonderful to have this grown up to live with, what an amazing man he was becoming! That line Sean Connery spoke about Indiana Jones comes to mind: "You left, just as you were becoming interesting." In our case, he came back and was he ever interesting! Jessie and I were prepared by our training in spiritual formation to sit with Zach through this time and not try to fix him. No "I told you so" moments, just sitting with the hurt and hurting along with him.
What do you do with those good memories? You can purge the photo album of the reminders but there is still memory.
Years later, and Zach has remarried. Another son returned home to put together his life, scrambled by military service. I'm driving his truck home from a peer group meeting, my heart open from the experience as is usually the case. The radio begins to play "Everything She Does Is Magic." It all comes roaring back, particularly that exceptional ritual dance perfomance.
I'm in tears.
I'm feeling an overwhelming presence of Grace. The power of that memory, of the happiness and joy makes me think that our lives are crafted using a palette of diverse emotions. How dare we try to remove or deny those hard times from the painting of our lives? To change metaphors, bittersweet is a flavor to be savored as much as any other. A transformation occurred in me that integrated those memories into a new coherence with the rest of my memories. I was human, life is messy. The love you take is equal to the love you make. The sadness sweetens the happiness, they coexist and sustain each other.
That epiphany was a Now moment: deep and rich and eternal. It resonates years later, connecting dots in my life, exercising my heart and mind, creating a well of compassion. Tears are very close and accessible for me. That well grows as I begin to empathize with the suffering of other people, friends as well as strangers. That well grows wide when joy is shared with family and friends, but it only grows deep through suffering.
It is well with my soul.
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Mr. White Sox
I saw Orestes "Minnie" Minoso play at Comiskey Park before we moved from Downer's Grove, so it had to be in the late 1950s or early 1960s. It is rather sad, actually, that I remember few other details of my first time with my Dad at a live baseball game. I remember angry faces all around us yelling derogatory things at Minnie Minoso. My father was embarrassed when I asked how these White Sox fans could be so nasty to one of our own? I look back on that night when my own sense of racism surfaces. My heart goes out to all who count the passing of Mr. White Sox as a loss of a friend. I feel that loss, too.
Baseball teaches loyalty and gives men a language in which to engage each other in matters of the heart. Why else would a Cub fan be so loyal? It certainly makes no logical sense to root for a team that hasn't played in the World Series for a century. It's a heart thing that guys get. (I'm not discounting that women have access to the same language, but they seem to have more heart things going for them, too.) Better teams in Chicago abound in terms of success, but my lesson of loyalty was learned foremost in this relationship with the Chicago White Sox.
Our loyalty usually begins with a family connection to a team. Despite my unpleasant initial experience, I went to more games and watched or listened to them with my Dad, and then on my own. There's nothing like walking into a baseball stadium and seeing that green lawn under a blue sky. It was a lifelong connection that kept us close when, let's say political discussions, had the potential to drive us apart.
My dad died in the spring of 2005, when the White Sox pulled off an incredible season culminating in a superb run through the Playoffs and a World Series crown. This connection resonates, so there is a bittersweet flavor to the joy of having "my team" go all the way the very year I can't hug my father and jump up and down. We look up and know those loved ones are somehow pleased and sharing our celebration.
Minnie Minoso remained loyal despite all the ugliness. Sometimes that loyalty was exploited and he was called out of retirement to play a few games for some odd idea of record book significance. If Ernie Banks was noted for "let's play two," I suppose Minnie could be noted for "let's keep playing!" even though that's not a direct quote. What an amazing lesson these two taught us about graceful living on and off the field of play, if we only had the eyes to see and ears to hear. Thus, Minnie loved what I love, which in the heart logic of Baseball means I love Minnie.
I may not have thought about him for years, but his passing means something and it hurts. But it's a sweet pain I can live with. In this heart logic of Baseball that surpasses any theological constraints, I can even imagine Minnie playing two in the finest league of all, where no one in the stands shouts anything but praises. The stands are packed, too. My Uncle Lou has been enjoying the recent appearance of Mr. Cub.
My Dad is in for a real treat: Minnie Minoso is taking the field tonight.
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