To deny the human pains of living is as delusional as some hypochondriases. One exaggerates the importance of things .... the other trivializes that importance.
A youngster in song writes: "It's gonna be a long, lonesome Summer. But Darling I'll tell you this. I'll send you all my love. Every Day in a letter. Sealed with a Kiss."
Thinking positively all the time (Gotta love that Cancer) is as delusional as some pessimisms. One trivializes the importance of pains ... the other replaces life with them.
I suspect it is true of many elections (but I'm caught up in the hype about the American one) that more than half the people will be disappointed in the results and caught up in negativity for times bracketing the election on each side. Maybe 4 out of 9 will be disheartened that their candidate has lost and another 1 or more of 9 that their candidate who they weren't pleased with to begin with won.
Negativity is a well that remains dry even after the rainy Season. It bears little resemblance to Realism and the Fourth Quarter has no shortage of Players who have ended the game. I often conjure up the image of a person rising in a theater and announcing midway through the Second Act that the performance is over. 'Please, finish your popcorn and leave your seats quietly. I'm sending the Cast back to their Homes.'
The Fourth Quarter is chocked full of excuses to do so. Parents are gone ... maybe half the cousins, siblings and friends, too ... and children and betimes grandchildren no longer bear the patina of immortality. If one is somewhere in the midst of a normal health curve, the spine begins to speak in the language of collapse and arthritis ... sleep is not that idealized uninterrupted kind .... and there is some evidence of neuropathy that prevents vigorous signals from reaching the ends of some limbs yielding a sense of numbness. ... One could go on. My own arrhythmias intrude on longstanding habits and hobbies and my Thyroid has tired of its task ... Yuch.
And if one is fortunate to still have a partner, the probability of one getting caught in negativity may be as much as doubled.
To the Negativist, the future is fraught with not only danger but the certainty of disaster. Not only will the election be lost but the entire World Order will change ... and to the iconoclast who votes for the candidate that is never going to win, there already has been a broad denial that incremental change is possible in a direction that will bring them a portion of joy, gratitude and peace. Ethics of the Fathers has it: Who is the fortunate one? That person who feels gratitude for their share in life.
Going to drive 330 miles to visit two of our grandchildren ... the two who live at a distance. At 8 and 11, they'll be waiting at a window, smiling when they receive a cell phone call that we've exited the highway. ... like puppies wagging their tails with glee. The election will wait and so will any visions that include the warnings to the attendees that the sky is falling or the performance is over.
Gunther Dog joined the chorus, last night. He has begun to snore.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Sunday, October 7, 2012
The Force of Character
Some years ago, I had a column in a professional rag called the NAAP News. We called it Letters to the Author and it followed an experience that I had with a reviewer of something I'd written (Oedipal Paradigms in Collision) who pretty obviously hadn't read my rather lengthy arguments. I remember reading his published review and not only being in a quiet state of disagreement but being, as is somewhat more consistent with the truth, pissed off. I decided to review books differently. The "Letters" column would attempt, in the form of a letter, to get in the author's "boat" and row a little with them and then to add the author's response. I would not respond to the response, feeling that since I had chosen the book, I had already given the author the right to last response. Maybe I'd do it differently, now.
In any case, a couple of days ago someone contacted the Editor of the rag asking if the column with my letter to James Hillman and his response might not be available. They contacted me as they could no longer find a copy of that issue. I checked my present computer and my last one and found files that must contain the sought after copy but couldn't open the file of Hillman's response to my review of his volume on ... ach du lieber ... aging. And asking Jim Hillman? He died last year. He called himself a Renegade Jungian after leaving the training faculty in Zurich where, as I recall (or where my mind invents?), I met him when I and Marsha and the older kids visited in 1970. I think he had been training director in the educational institute, there.
How the years pass! And how quickly things are forgotten! Not just the four generations that are typically sufficient for familial memory to lose track of Great Grandma or Great Grandpa. But now I find myself confronted with losses of collective memory in a decade or so.
I don't much remember his response, though it was full of freundlichkeit, friendliness, as I recall.
The editor has lost old copies of that issue.
I never thought to keep them.
My computers won't translate the old files.
And Jim Hillman died.
Zo!
Pfffft! They're gone.
Think that may be connected to yesterday's feelings that had me remembering Lee Hayes singing "How do I know my youth is all spent."
Think I'll go for a run, as soon as the Sun begins its run for the day.
In any case, a couple of days ago someone contacted the Editor of the rag asking if the column with my letter to James Hillman and his response might not be available. They contacted me as they could no longer find a copy of that issue. I checked my present computer and my last one and found files that must contain the sought after copy but couldn't open the file of Hillman's response to my review of his volume on ... ach du lieber ... aging. And asking Jim Hillman? He died last year. He called himself a Renegade Jungian after leaving the training faculty in Zurich where, as I recall (or where my mind invents?), I met him when I and Marsha and the older kids visited in 1970. I think he had been training director in the educational institute, there.
How the years pass! And how quickly things are forgotten! Not just the four generations that are typically sufficient for familial memory to lose track of Great Grandma or Great Grandpa. But now I find myself confronted with losses of collective memory in a decade or so.
I don't much remember his response, though it was full of freundlichkeit, friendliness, as I recall.
The editor has lost old copies of that issue.
I never thought to keep them.
My computers won't translate the old files.
And Jim Hillman died.
Zo!
Pfffft! They're gone.
Think that may be connected to yesterday's feelings that had me remembering Lee Hayes singing "How do I know my youth is all spent."
Think I'll go for a run, as soon as the Sun begins its run for the day.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Have had better days
Pete Seeger and Lee Hayes used to sing some truths (see below) ... how is it possible that years of energy are followed by dragging one's ass ... as often as not. De-energized, today .... I'll be back ...
My Get-Up-And-Go Has Got Up and Went
- Anonymous…
But sometimes I wonder, as I crawl into bed,
With my ears in a drawer, my teeth in a cup,
My eyes on the table until I wake up.
As sleep dims my vision, I say to myself:
Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?
But, though nations are warring, and Congress is vexed,
We’ll still stick around to see what happens next!
- How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get-up-and-go has got up and went!
But, in spite of it all, I’m able to grin
And think of the places my getup has been!
I could kick up my heels right over my head.
When I was older my slippers were blue,
But still I could dance the whole night through.
Now I am older, my slippers are black.
I huff to the store and puff my way back.
But never you laugh; I don’t mind at all:
I’d rather be huffing than not puff at all!
- How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get-up-and-go has got up and went!
But, in spite of it all, I’m able to grin
And think of the places my getup has been!
Open the paper, and read the Obits.
If I’m not there, I know I’m not dead,
So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed!
- How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get-up-and-go has got up and went!
But, in spite of it all, I’m able to grin
And think of the places my getup has been!
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Looking Presidential
Watching the Presidential debate, last night, was a tormenting experience ... a tired warrior ... in a Tenth Heavyweight Round .... and someone who was saying a great deal that seemed to boldly contradict what he had said on many previous occasions. Some people come and visit me and oftentimes will talk about what it's like to be living in the declining years of a once-proud civilization.
De-energized! That's it. It's difficult enough getting older but to do so during the Fall of Some Empire seems like a cruel joke.
I feel worried and de-energized. It was Erik Erikson who a half century ago, in describing the variety of conflicts that occasion an unfolding life from childhood to the grave, suggested that in the last stages of life the choice was between what he called generativity, the sharing with one's progeny, and despair.
I feel worried and de-energized and despairing. What could I tell my grandchildren that will be hopeful? A great nation was founded on the magic of balancing free enterprise and individualism with some form of the social contract. And now that nation seems locked into poisonous and betimes dishonest representations of its attempts to deal with a changing World .... A world in which a goodly percentage of the population has become somewhat redundant ... in which change has occurred maybe too rapidly for us to adjust.
I think I'll join some Luddite organization and fight against industrialization or something. The French Legion, alas, won't have me!
Glad that I'm not President.
De-energized! That's it. It's difficult enough getting older but to do so during the Fall of Some Empire seems like a cruel joke.
I feel worried and de-energized. It was Erik Erikson who a half century ago, in describing the variety of conflicts that occasion an unfolding life from childhood to the grave, suggested that in the last stages of life the choice was between what he called generativity, the sharing with one's progeny, and despair.
I feel worried and de-energized and despairing. What could I tell my grandchildren that will be hopeful? A great nation was founded on the magic of balancing free enterprise and individualism with some form of the social contract. And now that nation seems locked into poisonous and betimes dishonest representations of its attempts to deal with a changing World .... A world in which a goodly percentage of the population has become somewhat redundant ... in which change has occurred maybe too rapidly for us to adjust.
I think I'll join some Luddite organization and fight against industrialization or something. The French Legion, alas, won't have me!
Glad that I'm not President.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Taking Oneself Seriously ... Seriously!
Sktrbrain asked if I was joking about my comment about feeling as if meetings were readying me for life in the Day Room of an Alzheimer's Nursing Home .... I had just the previous night been in the company of a group of folk who all have worked in my field and they were driving about -- conversationally -- like so many smashed up stock cars in a demolition derby ... hither and yon ... crash ... bam ... wandering off. Not a Second Quarter Player in the mix. Almost no one ever speaking to the point of the meeting. But each taking themselves very seriously ... myself, included.
I've been busy for the past couple of days ... juggling all the details of life in the Fourth Quarter with those matters that remain in my working life ... I work about 3/4 time ... I waltz.
Here, Sktrbrain, are just a few of my scattered thoughts that have dominated my thinking.
One had to do with the Hebrew Bible, the Christian Old Testament. The scholars from two millenia past suggested that there were 613 commandments listed. 248+365 ... for their estimate of the days of the year and the number of bones in the human body ... positives and negatives. I became preoccupied with whether the divine comment to Adam (literally, Earthman) after he screwed up by eating the wrong stuff and diming out his lady (some commentaries say that that was his central sin ... primal sin ... his lack of gratitude for the gift of a partner) was one of those commandments. God tells him: "with the sweat of your brow, you'll eat bread." Was that just a curse or was that a recommendation.
Last night, I was hanging out with a bunch of Fourth Quarter types and one relatively young carttonist ... he couldn't have been more than a year or two older than my oldest son ... maybe 48 or 50 or something. That conversation was scattered, too, but had a quality of "lemme tell you where I've been". There was a sweetness to it .... Towards the end, three couples remained ... married 44, 47 and 50 years, respectively. At least one party to each contract was still working ... actually, all were at least somewhat active. I left that meet feeling hopeful and going back to my morning thought about the value of sweat equity.
As I pulled in front of our home, I looked lovingly at a path that I rebricked (not too well) and a brick planter that I fashioned at the bottom. Blessed are you Animator of the World (Anima Mundi) who still permits me to mix mortar and concrete. Amen.
As one bit of liturgy goes: Listen up to our voices: ... don't toss us out in our dotage; as our strengths wane, don't toss us out!
Long day ahead ... and then the debate. May whoever our president is not toss us out, either. I've just noticed how the carmakers are producing cars that stop on their own before we baby-boomers bash into the cars we're following ... Just in time, I'd say.
I've been busy for the past couple of days ... juggling all the details of life in the Fourth Quarter with those matters that remain in my working life ... I work about 3/4 time ... I waltz.
Here, Sktrbrain, are just a few of my scattered thoughts that have dominated my thinking.
One had to do with the Hebrew Bible, the Christian Old Testament. The scholars from two millenia past suggested that there were 613 commandments listed. 248+365 ... for their estimate of the days of the year and the number of bones in the human body ... positives and negatives. I became preoccupied with whether the divine comment to Adam (literally, Earthman) after he screwed up by eating the wrong stuff and diming out his lady (some commentaries say that that was his central sin ... primal sin ... his lack of gratitude for the gift of a partner) was one of those commandments. God tells him: "with the sweat of your brow, you'll eat bread." Was that just a curse or was that a recommendation.
Last night, I was hanging out with a bunch of Fourth Quarter types and one relatively young carttonist ... he couldn't have been more than a year or two older than my oldest son ... maybe 48 or 50 or something. That conversation was scattered, too, but had a quality of "lemme tell you where I've been". There was a sweetness to it .... Towards the end, three couples remained ... married 44, 47 and 50 years, respectively. At least one party to each contract was still working ... actually, all were at least somewhat active. I left that meet feeling hopeful and going back to my morning thought about the value of sweat equity.
As I pulled in front of our home, I looked lovingly at a path that I rebricked (not too well) and a brick planter that I fashioned at the bottom. Blessed are you Animator of the World (Anima Mundi) who still permits me to mix mortar and concrete. Amen.
As one bit of liturgy goes: Listen up to our voices: ... don't toss us out in our dotage; as our strengths wane, don't toss us out!
Long day ahead ... and then the debate. May whoever our president is not toss us out, either. I've just noticed how the carmakers are producing cars that stop on their own before we baby-boomers bash into the cars we're following ... Just in time, I'd say.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Another Meeting
Last night ... one of the attendees just final galley proofs of book on kids' development, particularly around language. The group is, indeed, getting old. Maybe 60-90 or a little better. I was sitting there thinking as the conversation wandered from what chickens experienced before being slaughtered to the % of genes separating chimps from hominid chomps, from the territory shared by Philosophers, Psychologists and Theologians. I think we likely spoke about one of the chapters of the soon-to-be-published and decided, if I may be permitted to wander as I do anyway here, what to read but not talk about next month ... I was thinking how such meetings might prepare one for the Day Room of a Nursing Home. Loose associative paths connecting A to B to Chickens and Chimps.
My Grandmother, Mother and Mother-in-Law all ended up in such places, suffering from Alzheimers. Many of us Last Quarter folk carry with us the knowledge (if not the gene itself ) that we may be beyond any point of return from a trip to some specific illness that our forebears bore.
Still, I went out this AM to try my return to running. My heart wasn't cooperative but I kept up my jog at 6. A neighbor was out with his two pooches behind one of those invisible fences that's supposed to keep les barkers at bay. Life is, in part, I suppose, about trust. All my parts are intact ... though my heart continues its refusal to settle down into a comfortable rhythm, this morning. I remind myself of Kunitz while remembering that my people begin their days with a prayer thanking God for giving strength to the weary, to which I typically respond with a more than hearty Amen:
Stanley Kunitz
My Grandmother, Mother and Mother-in-Law all ended up in such places, suffering from Alzheimers. Many of us Last Quarter folk carry with us the knowledge (if not the gene itself ) that we may be beyond any point of return from a trip to some specific illness that our forebears bore.
Still, I went out this AM to try my return to running. My heart wasn't cooperative but I kept up my jog at 6. A neighbor was out with his two pooches behind one of those invisible fences that's supposed to keep les barkers at bay. Life is, in part, I suppose, about trust. All my parts are intact ... though my heart continues its refusal to settle down into a comfortable rhythm, this morning. I remind myself of Kunitz while remembering that my people begin their days with a prayer thanking God for giving strength to the weary, to which I typically respond with a more than hearty Amen:
The Layers
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face,
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Homilies and other Happy Tales
Heard someone deliver a sermon on "transitions" ... It was nice! hopeful! New way, she intimated, of looking at her life ... her first son was just married ... about to become empty-nester. We Last Quarter daredevils, on the other hand, have long said goodbye to our kids ... grandkids have come as the next redeemers and they've turned out to be come as they wants. One Poet Laureate recommended that we "live in the layers, not the litter" ... I could go for that, too. Or as my Father years ago would say to Marsha, his daughter in law, if he wanted to eat something that was out of arm's reach at the table: Lemme see some of that.
I haven't run for a year until just recently. Just barely running 2/3 of mile compared to what had been 4-6 miles each day until I began breaking metatarsals Summer of 2010. Sometimes, it feels like transitions and at other times it feels like walking blindfolded over a cliff.
Did feel great to go out in the cool early morning Fall air ...
Think I'm gonna do that .... each morning! a run, however short, out in the World of which I'm still a part. Maybe I can end each day with a similarly brief ride on one of my 1974 pedal bikes ... they deserve to breathe, too.
I haven't run for a year until just recently. Just barely running 2/3 of mile compared to what had been 4-6 miles each day until I began breaking metatarsals Summer of 2010. Sometimes, it feels like transitions and at other times it feels like walking blindfolded over a cliff.
Did feel great to go out in the cool early morning Fall air ...
Think I'm gonna do that .... each morning! a run, however short, out in the World of which I'm still a part. Maybe I can end each day with a similarly brief ride on one of my 1974 pedal bikes ... they deserve to breathe, too.
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