My Old Pal Ben

FEBRUARY 10, 2009 Just as I was about to sit and start my five minute daily writing exercise I received a phone call from the social worker of St. John’s hospital. After introducing herself she asked a few questions to make sure that she had the right person on the phone, then she asked about my old pal Ben. Ben had been hospitalized a couple of days previously with pneumonia; he doesn’t exercise much if at all so I wasn’t surprised that what might have been a chest cold became something else; but that wasn’t her concern. Does Ben have any relatives that I know of, any friends whom she might contact, was there anyone else? The answer to all of these is no Ben has no one in his file except my name and number because I have been visiting him for a couple of years; not as a hospice patient, just as an elder who received the occasional visit. Ben has had dementia from the beginning although recently it has become severe, he no longer recognizes my face, never mind my name. Ben lives in the here and the now, can’t look backward and is frightened to look forward, although he sometimes does talk about that. It has become difficult to visit Ben and the others since I had the heart experience, not that I am near being a candidate for either a home or hospice, just that I sailed a little closer to that shoal than was comfortable. If I go over and see Ben tonight I will have to introduce myself, expect that nothing we have said previously is remembered, and that as soon as I leave all is forgotten. Why go?—- To give a guy the few minutes of conversation and maybe a joke or two that will be all he gets in the course of a day; and immediately forgotten. The reason that it is more difficult to make visits is that it forces me to face the meaningless of all of this, that nothing one accomplishes means anything other than at the time and place; that whether we are or whether we vanish is irrelevant, except that we need to do whatever it is that we are about in order to be complete. This is the fucking paradox that has been giving people headaches and into arguments for thousands of years; and in the end it is about visiting Ben for a few minutes.

Goals and answers

Yesterday was my fifth and last session at the Chronic Pain Clinic; everyone I met with asked the same question–if I had met my goals for the program? To each one I answered the same: I had no goals, I could have no goals because I was ignorant of what the program had to offer, what my body could accomplish, I can’t foresee the future. This didn’t sit easily with any of the therapists, as I well knew from previous discussions; they have forms to complete, statistics to be calculated, and they are trained to having goals in what they do. What I answered each of them was whether I was happy with what had happened at the Clinic, was I discontented over any part of the program?

I am pleased with every part of the program: with the attention and focus of the physicians, the alternate medication they offered; with the attitude and professional nature of the nurses; with the insights and understanding of the psychologists; with the advice and attention of the O. T. staff; with the exercises and rehabilitation offered by P. T.; with the increased management offered by the bio-feedback portion. All areas offered benefits that I attempted to absorb to the fullest. But I had no goals, I had only attitude, to get all that I could out of what this clinic was offering, to do whatever I could to minimize my pain and discomfort, to be open to whatever benefit might come along.

This is of course an attitude towards the spiritual or Spiritual life; I can’t say that I am in full communion with the Divine, who could know that? I cannot say what my Spiritual quest will give me, if I could then it wouldn’t be a quest for what is unknown to me now. This is an attitude that often results in anxiety of the unknown, it would be comfortable to know that if I prayed a certain number of times, if I did so many good works, if I followed a particular method I would gain enlightenment. That’d be a great thing if it was so, but it is not, it has never been the path to enlightenment, never will be; it may be the reason that the organized church is on the edge of irrelevancy, except for the lack of alternative. To be catholic is to be a good follower, it has never been anything else.

I received far more from the Pain Management Program than I could have predicted, and I am pleased that I did not have quantitative or qualitative goals that may have given me temporary pleasure but would have restricted my growth. The same can be said of my spiritual journey; I don’t know where it will lead, I have faith that good will result, but I have no knowledge of the future or of the infinity of the Spiritual. And that’s the way I have always been.

And that would be a difference between being a conservative and what I am.

What was the question?

WHAT WAS THE QUESTION AGAIN?

I was feeling unsettled over something or other, and decided to drive over to Peet’s for a coffee; I don’t know what made me think of doing this, I have the same coffee at home, and the traffic on North Avenue is always to be avoided, especially on my day-off. There was nobody I knew at Peet’s, but there was a dozen people burbling on cell phones; I took my coffee and walked up past the Whole Foods store, questioning as I always did what it was that there business is about, it isn’t just good and pure food, we have always had sources for that, it is that they promise something else, something philosophical or spiritual and pseudo-scientific, I can’t put my finger on their message; but it certainly is successful, their message resonates, especially among a certain group. Could it be that people believe that if one ate just the right combination of foods there would be a special reward? That their food should be thought of as some sort of prescription that will ward off evil spirits and give eternal life; is this what Ponce De Leon had sought and never found?

I stopped in front of Transitions Bookstore , a “new age”café and store with a display of books and lecture announcements all of which seemed to be offering the one true answer, the one right path, the secret of the ages. If there was but one true answer, one great secret–why is it in any number of different books? Why isn’t it taught to every school child in the world? Why would the one important truth in life be limited to these “New York Times bestselling authors”?

I walked on through the stream of pedestrian robots with earpieces supplying the necessarily constant and deadening music, reminding me of Aldous Huxley. Next is this large store with a name that is made-up, selling makeup, that is successful, and not only with women. A lot of people paying a lot of money to pretend to not look or smell as they really do; factor that notion in if you can.

None of these observations are new, none are unique to me; but there is something more going on here, there is something behind all of this avoidance and denial.

In my work I occasionally drive people whose names are familiar, who employ people to make sure that their names and faces are familiar; I drive these people to a place, wait for them to do their thing, then drive them back to the other place. If it is a nice day I often stand outside the limousine and read a book while wait, or just stand and enjoy the passing parade; part of the parade is the awe that comes over people when they think they may be in the presence of someone famous; people who are famous for being famous.

I am far from the first person to witness and note this effect; but what is it that is going on here? How does this relate to what I was noticing at the mall.

The day after my walk through the mall on North Avenue I paid a visit to Bert in the home: He is looking even more drawn than before, I imagine the cancers in there doing their nasty work; the colors on his face and hands becoming more a patchwork of grays and whites, the food stains on his shirt more noticeable because he has just finished lunch, and more lunch is dropping from his slack mouth.

I say hello, he looks up into my eyes, after a few seconds there is a recognition, I say my name, he smiles and moves his hand in an attempt to raise it, I take hold of that cool hand, not too energetically or forcefully I give him a handshake. He is sitting in the hallway, there are about eight of them lined up in the hallway, all in wheelchairs; I pull up an empty chair in order to sit beside Bert. I ask that question that always makes me feel really stupid, I ask him how is it going? What kind of question is that to ask a dying man? What else is there to say? my options are limited here. He gives me a smile and says “oh, you know, it goes”. I ask if he is in pain, that is a required question, one that must be answered on the report form; no he is not in any pain—-good, very good.

There is one question that always brings a wry smile “well, what’s new at this place?” Boredom is the universal among the elderly and the dying, so I try and make some sort of joke about the obvious.

We sit for a while, I make my usual comment about watching the parade go by, I say it because it always makes us both smile. I ask what he had for lunch, less than an hour previous, he can’t remember; did his daughter visit on Sunday, he can’t remember. I sit, he sits, we sit, the lineup of wheelchairs sit in the hallway, near the nurses’ station where they can all be seen in a glance by the always busy nurses and aides.

I stay for about another fifteen minutes, it seems forever; there is nothing here other than hello, a few smiles, a waiting; I can’t stay there longer than that, it becomes pointless, it borders on being depressive, I feel out of place.

I fill out the necessary form, leave a copy on the nurses’ desk, say goodbye to Bert, then I say goodbye to a few others who have come to recognize me over time. One woman takes my hand and compliments me on my new hat, tells me it makes me look good, that she is glad that she got to see this great hat. There is a guy in one of those padded chair/beds that are used for people who have little or no control; I think that he is looking at me, I say hello, he makes a noise, I smile and then move on to the elevator.

On the ground floor, near the elevator, there is a drinking fountain where I always stop and take a long drink; there is something about spending time up there that makes me want to have a long drink of cool water. Then I leave, or do I escape?

My mind wants to make a connection between the questions raised at the mall and the experience of sitting with this dying man who is my good friend, who doesn’t know my name; there is something that is in the back of my mind, it is yelling something in my ear. I refuse to understand what it is that I am being told.

At the mall are offered answers to unasked questions, to made up questions, to stupid questions—–at the home there is no answer, no question, no worthy comment. There is just sitting in the hallway waiting.

I was about to make some comment on what other people are looking for, what is missing in their lives, what keeps them from being right here in the present and not in denial; then I realized that that would be going down the conservative way of blame and criticism, change direction. All that I observed and wrote down here is part of my trying to figure out what I am about, the only person of whom I have any knowledge or control. So what do I think that I am missing, what is absent from this life of mine, what answers will make it all right?

There is nothing missing.

This is it, complete and understandable.

If I sometimes forget this, remind me.

Looking at the garden

Looking out the window at an early spring morning, before life shows itself again.There is something more to us than owning, than beliefs that don’t lead anywhere, than relationships that aren’t mutually loving.

There is that that carries us beyond the most difficult problems, the hardest of times, that continues when optimism disappoints, that offers hope.

In times when pain is at a level that obliterates other thought; in times when anxiety and fear of what might come disturb our understanding of what it is to stay alive; at times when we are sad and frustrated with the knowledge of children tortured and murdered for sport—-at these times, times that each of us has known, at these times we know intuitively something else, something beyond, something infinite. The name, the label, the description is irrelevant unless it interferes; remember that it is always in our nature to look, to seek, to believe in that that is just beyond whatever this is now.

———————————————————–

I don’t have anything specific that prompted me to write the above, there is nothing dramatic going on here, no weather report of interest, no conflict with landlord or boss, nothing much at all; it is just that I need to remind myself of what I wrote, find it within myself. And I thought that somebody else might be prompted to find it also, because it has always been there. I publish this right now because if I don’t do it now the fire will die down, there will be just warm ashes.

Frying

Everyone is familiar with the notion that life can be pictured as a leaf floating down a stream, moving from place to place, occasionally caught for in an eddy or against a pebble, stays for a while before moving onwards and downstream. It is a pretty good metaphor, but what about this one:It is as if I am a piece floating in hot oil, where it touches my outside there is sizzle, after being in it for a short period I develop a crust that protects my inner part from drying out, from being denatured. I float on the surface, I bounce from interaction to incident, being heated by the very hot grease, but not burned.

Yesterday, because of weather delays at O’Hare and the nature of the fare & pay system I earned less than minimum wage for the day; on the other hand I was paid while I was reading volume 3 of Tillich’s Systematic Theology , a book that will take me the rest of my life to read, a book by someone who still surprises me with the depth of his understanding; not paid very much while I reading him, but it wouldn’t be right to be earn big bucks while doing that.

I drove a couple of young corporate types out to O’Hare, their studied shallowness and superficiality pained me to experience. “I was like”, “he was like”; every fourth word was “like”, every fourth word was like experiencing a sleet storm hitting my face; but then it was over, they went on their shallow and controlled corporateness.

Yesterday I was informed that I had a ‘charge-back’ on my pay, a passenger from weeks ago disputed that I should be paid my full gratuity because he was unsatisfied; I remember the order, it was fucked-up from the time it was phoned in until the moment he left the car, nothing about it went right, just the way things go sometimes. It cost me almost a day’s pay; on the other hand there has recently been additional $100 bills handed over at the end of a few orders, just the way things go sometimes.

A couple of days ago I had the painful experience of not being able to see my dying friend Bert, he had just been returned from the hospital and was not to be disturbed; that I am not allowed to know his medical condition, that I am just the anonymous and occasional visitor is a role that I know, it is a well reasoned and predictable role; but it hurts to be turned away, turned and kept ignorant of his condition. On the other hand I have had the warmest smiles from that man that I can remember in my whole life, smiles that were so pure I could barely stand them; it is because we have no history between us, have no agenda between us, that those pure smiles and a thank-yous can happen.

Relations between my landlord and myself are strained, they were never close even though he lives nearby, but they have now been strained; the beauty of the tenant lease defines what I do, what he does, there is no mention of friendship or cordiality, that ain’t part of any lease or contract, that is the beauty of it.

I am back up to 375 mg. of Lyrica; it makes me a little drunk in the morning, but the fibromyalgia pain seems to be gone, I am going to stay at this level as long as I can.

It is now before dawn, I am alone; in order to understand and move through all of this, being alone is necessary; sometimes I am lonely, the loss of family and friends is painful, should be painful, but it doesn’t destroy me.

A few people will read what I write, almost no one who I know face to face; anonymity allows me to write about this journey just before dawn on a Friday in early springtime. I do think that this can be viewed as a journey in boiling oil, oil full of energy and the ability to change who I am on the outside, if I don’t have some sort of crust on I would be destroyed. After a while my time in the oil will be done, I will be removed, as will each and every one of us; the trip is eventful, it is painful, it is hot, it is disturbing, it impinges, it is wonderful.

The sky is becoming lighter in the east, the coffee in the pot is luke-warm, Aged Sumatra is the label on the bag, great tasting stuff that I can still taste a few hours afterwards, great stuff that stays in my blood and gives me that coffee jolt.

It is important to have a book, or books, that I will never completely understand; for the last while I have been giving books away, books that I never go near anymore, that don’t have anything more for me, I have drank all that is in there; certainly I have the Internet for data, for searching; but I have a few actual books that move me each time I open one of them. I once read that the Bible is not holy unless it moves the reader in a spiritual way, only then it becomes holy, and for just that time, otherwise it is just a collection of works decided on by some guys on an island a couple of centuries after Christ died, guys who needed to stitch together an empire of land and thought.

I am going to have a morning nap after reading a few pages of Larry McMurtry’s Telegraph Days, loaf around until it is time to go back to work.

Cook a piece of trout

I met a guy I know in the supermarket the other day, he asked me what I was cooking, I showed him the fillet of trout; he told me that he was going to make some kind of soup with a standard soup recipe; then he told me that he liked fish but was afraid of cooking it. His fear keeps him from what he really likes; fish is just a little bit of flesh, to be cooked as any other kind of flesh, and if he screws it up the worst that could happen is that it is thrown away and he has to make a peanut butter sandwich. I suggested that if he is afraid to cook fish that that is what he ought to be making.

There is this really bright and effective guy who has done something that caused him to lose his big job and strain his family.

There was a time when I often used sex as an antidote to anxiety. I don’t know if I have ever written that before, admitted it before:– it really doesn’t matter in the scheme of things what I did, what anyone did, and so we might as well admit to them.

There are people who feel the need to put down their children’s aspirations, who can offer only conditional love and acceptance; there are people who are so afraid of human interactions that they must have everything on a competitive or unemotional level; there are people who do all sorts of things because of anxiety and the other demons. These demons are in the nature of all people, always have been, always will be. Perhaps we could admit that, and go on from there?

Now that nature has relieved me of the sex option, or toned it down somewhat, I need to live with and face my anxiety without the sex option, which I have been doing for about a decade now.

I write this with the understanding that it is not guy talk, not something to be discussed, and that is the problem. All of us have something or other, the more we sit on that something or other the more it hurts both ourself and others.

I am fortunate that I am in a position now that I don’t give a shit who knows what is going on, I have more important matters of concern; I now spend my energy examining what has been called the ultimate concern.So maybe I can do a bit of service by just putting down here what I feel, I experienced, I did, without the worry of concealment.

I don’t know if the guy who lost his big job yesterday has anxiety problems, don’t really care because it is none of my business; but he does have something that he tried to conceal, concealing causes a lot of damage. A decade ago there was this guy who nearly lost a very big job, because of concealment of something that affected him unduly. His wife may not get that same very big job because it is perceived that she conceals herself.

I have written previously of the instances of family members not admitting that dad is dying, keep believing that a new medicine will keep him from dying, that the medicine he now gets is making him act the way he is; family members who are looking away from what is the most natural thing in life, who are missing the opportunity to share and befriend dad as he goes about his business of dying.

I have no illusions that admitting to anxiety, writing about avoidance will change anyone’s mind; but I feel that it needs be said, that yesterday’s example will be taken by at least one person.

Buy a piece of trout, cook it just like a hamburger; the worst that can happen is that you will have to eat a peanut butter sandwich.

Wearing my new hat

Last Saturday I was wearing my new hat when I went to visit Bert in the home; I had worn it on earlier occasions, for about a month, but they were ‘test runs’, Saturday I was a guy wearing his own hat.

I have worn hats off and on for almost seventy years, but this is different, this is the first good hat I have ever worn or owned: Printed on the sweatband is “RESISTOL ’self conforming’ Made in Texas, USA, 4xxxx BEAVER”; that pretty much explains everything. I do like wearing it, it is sitting on my head as I write; I have had floppy hiking hats, berets, and those ubiquitous one size fits allbaseball hats. I have a big head, the baseball caps look like undergraduate beanies, missing the propeller at the crown; this hat is “7-5/8″, there were only two in the store that fit me, a black and a brown, I left the black. It isn’t accurate to say that there were only two hats in the store that fit, there were straw hats of the cowboy variety in my size;but this has not been a straw hat kind of winter in Chicago, this is very much felt hat weather.

I am self-conscious about wearing a hat indoors, was raised when a hat was removed in an elevator, restaurant, addressing a lady, in the house; it was with that background that I went to the second floor to see Bert.

I found him in the day-room, his wheelchair was part of a circle, with Molly in the middle, a woman in her mid-twenties, of unending energy and enthusiasm, she was dancing around while waving a stick with a piece of ribbon attached. Everyone had a stick with ribbon attached, I was offered my choice, I took a green stick with green ribbon, Bert’s was a blue stick and ribbon. Molly would go from one to another of her dozen attendees, dancing, waving encouraging; she would hold someone’s hand and dance, she would make her ribbon shiver and shimmy; looking to elicit a reaction from each and every one.

All the wheelchairs had alarms attached, the alarm would sound if the sitter attempted to rise, Bert is always in a chair and alarm, it will also go off if he comes too close to the elevator.

A couple of the women were in regular chairs, their walkers standing next to them; one woman, I think her name is Carol, is always in a special chair that looks as if it is a hinged mattress folded to be a long chair, with high, padded, arm rests. I have seen Carol strapped into this chair on some occasions, today she was not; Carol’s limbs are in constant motion, irregular waving and bouncing, jerking, twitching she seems never to be still; her head swings from one shoulder to the other, the chin near her chest or pointed to the sky, the chords on her neck visible much of the time. Carol never talks, she moans, she howls, she screams; the last time she saw me she began shrieking, a nurse had to come and assure her that I was not there to harm.

Molly pushed a chair into place for me, between Bert and Carol, sat down clasping my stick with the ribbon attached.

Bert saw me, there was that pause before that warm smile, he raised his hand a few inches so that I could grasp and shake it; “hello old friend” is how I have been greeting him, that elicits an even warmer smile. He has no idea of my name, when he last saw me, just that he recognizes his friend of several months.

Molly finished dancing, a one sitting one standing sort of dance with each of the dozen women and Bert; thankfully she did not dance for or with me. A beach ball was produced next, and a game of catch began; catch turned out to be more appreciated than the dancing, most everyone opened their arms in an attempt to catch the beach ball, many attempted to return it. There were a couple of women who were not awake long enough to complete that give and take, their wakefulness is measured in seconds.

As Molly went around the circle giving everyone a chance to play she came to Carol; Molly threw the ball, Carol caught it, and then Carol threw the ball right back at Molly; there was a pause while I understood what had just happened, while Molly understood what had just happened, while Carol herself understood what had just happened. I had never seen Carol do anything purposely before, I don’t think Molly had either; all three of us laughed, others in the circle smiled, we had all witnessed something really good.

Within the last week I have corresponded with a theologian, had my attention brought to the religious statement of Oliver Sacks, talked with a woman interested in hospice work, drove someone who has a hangar at Midway Airport: That few seconds with Carol were the most interesting, the most memorable, the most spiritual.

I have read a few books of philosophy, theology, some great novels; all of them worthwhile, but that few seconds when a person concentrated her all, invested whatever she has, to catch and return that ball, that was something really good. The intensity of that situation lasted just a short time, it cannot be sustained, but it will always be remembered.

I was glad that I was wearing my new hat, that I was now grown up enough to wear a good hat, to appreciate it, take it to important events.

Use Another Label

I was reading the review of Nothing To Be Frightened Of by Julian Barnes in the Times Literary Supplement, there is this quote from him and an addition by the reviewer John Carey: ‘ “I don’t believe in God, but I miss him,” he admits — a perfect summary of the modern western predicament.’

That line stuck in my head, a day later I am putting down here my reaction to it. The intuitive need for a Spiritual life is the clue to follow, get to know what it is that summons, that offers more than is obvious. Become intimately acquainted with what you already know, have always known; be your own guide and tourist; for the time being stop using labels and rules, look to where intuition has always been willing to guide.

Never forget that the church is an institution, set up as an organization by a bunch of guys who wanted to please an emperor, have a creed that all would obey; they chose writings that would be allowed in the book, and those that would be forbidden, wrote that promise of obedience–the creed. I have no idea what the intentions were in these men, I do know about the emperor, the meeting on the island, orthodoxy; all may have been done for noble reasons, but no other person can know the divine better than any other, that is the essence of being acceptable, it has been the power of the example for two thousand years, it is in the nature of being.

The symbols, the rituals, the liturgy will return and be even more important, but only after one knows the nature of the divine, one has looked inside and found the truth. All the other stuff is nice, and it fits; it is supplementary, it does not lead one to understand the ‘ultimate concern’.

By whatever name one uses the absence of it does leave a void, the important missing part; the need and the quest to know are the basis of the First Commandment, true then true now.

The word “God” carries so much baggage for me, so much that is not my own that I refrain from using it when I look into my own soul and when I write; a term that often fits for me is “wellspring of being”, it portrays not only the source, but is active and ongoing, has the mystery of the source of the spring. Most often I use no word; attempt to be beyond words; to be beyond emotions, accept them, transcend them; step slowly and carefully into the void, with the courage to go towards the infinite.

More about options

There is more to say about options than my preachy statement a couple of days ago; I didn’t write about suicide from the attitude of a conservative, of one who needs to tell others in order to keep the spotlight diverted from myself (or maybe I did); I have been there, I know the territory intimately, lived there for decades; anyone who has read my Lydia post knows this. Some days it has been difficult, and some days just really, fucking tough, some days are wonderful; that is how I learned the difference between optimistic and hopeful.Optimism means that I think things will be better, the future will be good; to be hopeful is just that, I hope things will be better in the future; the first is a statement that I can read the future, which is bullshit, no one knows the future, no one has ever known the future, it is a logical fallacy. I hope that the future will be better, I hope that there will be less pain and disappointment; perhaps I can do something to help make things a little better in the present and hopefully for the future.It is important to live with just what is; I have had anxiety problems since I was an infant, there are days when the anxiety is high, when I am so uncomfortable that I can think of nothing else, and then there are days when I thought that I would do anything at all to stop the pain; there are days when the joy of being is all that any human could wish; those are the days that are dealt to me, the only ones I have, the same as everyone else.

I was not conscious of it, but I had an intuition that below all the turmoil of anxiety, and its cousin depression, there was, is, something within me that is solid beneath the waves of the storm; even though it took me a long time to see it directly I knew that there is something superficial to anxiety, to guilt, to disappointment, to loneliness; I can’t describe it, it is beyond words, images or sounds; everyone is capable of trying to know it, writers have been attempting for thousands of years to describe it. I am trying to say to those who may not yet looked at it—there is more to all of this than what is going on today in your life.

I don’t always know that that I wrote above, I sometimes forget or am blinded; yet, behind the scenes, there is that glimmer of knowledge, that source of joy, even though we all know that we must die; the special nature of humans is that we can see that we will die, and yet I can know the joy that almost bursts my seams at times. It is a strange business this being human, that we know we exist makes us special, that we know that we must die is also knowledge for us alone; and that we know, have known since the day that guy in the desert proclaimed it, that there is something deeper, imperturbable. And that’s the way it is.

I filled the bird feeder even before having coffee this morning; I had to go out and move the car, I parked it last night in a place that invited a ticket, before coming back inside I dumped a load of seed into the hopper. The area under the feeder is tanned with swollen seed that the birds can’t eat, it had fallen and become wet, then frozen, then wet…. The dead sparrow lays there still, it has been there for about a week; I thought that I might push it under the bushes, out of sight, but then I didn’t, I want to see what happens to it.

I had intended to write more about vegetables today; what I do when I go to the produce department, how I match the vegetables and whatever meat or fish that appeals, that kind of thing. But I didn’t; I wanted to put down here for those who have trouble admitting it that I know how it feels, and I know something else as well, we all do.

There are four doves on the ground with the sparrows, eating what is spilled by the enthusiasm of those that are at the trough; doves never stay for long, and so I like to stare at their colors and shading, that interesting contrast with the lively,dull brown sparrows.

Are there any options?

The story in The Times was about the increase in the suicide rate of people in middle-age, the rate for women was somewhat lower than for men, but the increase was large for both; no one who listens to what is going on would be surprised, that people who have sampled what the life they have chosen rewards them, that they are in despair. If the goals are ephemeral the rewards rewards will be superficial, that the excitement was temporary, that they have ignored great portions of what life has to offer; they have denied the interesting bits.——————————————————————

It is a bitter cold morning, although we have clear blue sky with a full sun the temperature is +5 and with the breeze we have wind-chill in the negatives. I had it in my mind that I was going for a long walk today, by ignoring the weather forecast yesterday I was able to convince myself that I’d go for that long walk that I need, straighten a few kinks, burn off some excess, get out and around to see what has been going on. But it isn’t going to happen, the cold is too much today, the ice on the walks treacherous enough to take all the fun out of a hike.

Instead I’ll go and buy the cups and plates that I have been putting off doing; A few weeks ago I realized that I had come to a place where I have nothing whatsoever that matches anything else, that the cupboard looks like the remainder box at a garage sale; and there is less pieces of anything than I thought, the handle breaks from a mug, a dinner plate slips while being washed, wine glasses never last; it is that dreaded time that I am not equipped to handle. A couple of weeks ago I went to Bed Bath and Beyondwhere I felt as out of place as any I can imagine; they have about twenty styles of liquid soap dispensers, the things that go around the bottom of a bed are arranged in numbers too large to count; pots and knives chosen for their looks instead of function take up an acre or two of store space; that business of breathing into a brown paper bag came to mind as I was overwhelmed by choices that had no distinction. I looked at some display plates, and then promptly left. Today I intend to buy two each of those plates, bowls, cups & saucers; plain white, open stock; never have to return for years to come.

Yesterday the papers reported on that recent suicide study, the one that showed that the middle-aged are killing themselves at rates much higher than previous; the numbers for women were lower than men but still up quite a ways. The article made an impression on the half a dozen people I encountered at Dave’s video store yesterday, they were talking about dementia, infirmities, the impossibility of handling being aged; this was not a conversation that I started, I just walked in on it. I remembered that a friend of mine had done research and written a book or paper about why people kill themselves (or should it be the singular event?).

People tend to commit suicide because they believe that they have no options left, that whatever it was that was important has failed, there is no where else to go than into that void. If one is looking for a time to be disappointed, middle-age is a good choice.

There is a scarcity of education in the midst of career training to become an executive, a lawyer, a doctor, a whatever focusing talents, time and energy, to the exclusion of learning anything else, in order to rise to the upper levels; only to find that the thing about upper levels is that there aren’t many seats to be had there, and those seats are expensive and uncomfortable.

The rewards for being successful are obvious and numerous and empty. I drove a fellow once who was part of a private bank, a number of rich people start their own bank to buy companies and securities and such; he was here to buy a chain of steak-houses and needed to look at each one of them before making a recommendation to his partners, so we spent about six hours driving around the area, and we talked. It turned out that we had a common interest in cars, that is what we talked about; then he said a most telling thing—I have had 7 Porsches, and I just get bored with each one. He currently had half a dozen fancy cars and was considering a Rolls convertible that had just come on the market.

He becomes bored with each one. Mr. Porsche is listening to guys like that, he continues to make even more expensive and exotic toys that stimulate, for a while. It is time to remember that deal that Faust made.

I have a handful of books at a bindery, to be given new and more durable covers, they have been used long and hard, the original covers are paper, to be affordable for the students who normally buy them; these books give me something new, something that challenges me, every time I pick one up and peer inside, one in particular has been doing this for over four decades, and continues, these hard covers are worth it.

I have gone through that period where whatever I held important disappointed, anything and everything that is mundane, that can be destroyed or will turn away, eventually will do just that, it is the nature of almost everything. Only that knowledge, that truth that is in the deepest part of our hearts, will never fail or leave.

Here are a couple of sentences that never fail to resonate in me: “ , the kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you. When you come to know yourselves, then you will become known “

That is what is missing in those who have to kill themselves, that failure to look inside and find what cannot disappoint, to find what will always excite; come to know what has been found by everyone and anyone who has the courage to look. To know what is beyond creed, cult and tradition; available to everyone and anyone.

My days of considering killing myself are behind me, but I do remember the haunting allure of that simple and eternal option, and I have come to know the alternative; I know that it is difficult to figure out, that the route to that knowledge is frightening, but it is there for everyone and anyone who has that courage to look.

There is silence outside my window, the feeder is empty except for a bit of seed in a corner that can’t be reached by fat sparrow heads; in my mind I can feel my bare fingers fumbling with the shackle that holds the feeder to the apple tree, my finger nail searching for the end of that split-ring on the cotter-pin.

The coffee is finished, this post is written, it is time to go outside and do it.