PROPHETIC HINTS OFTHINGS TO COME (or the kid in the back seat)

     We had a 1946 two-tone green Plymouth sedan when I was growing up. I always had the back seat all to myself because my sister got married when I was seven, so she had moved on to being a responsible adult while I was still in the play-period of my life, sometimes being an irresponsible child, though not intentionally.
      Occasionally my parents and I would go for Sunday afternoon drives, but seldom in the same direction we had gone before. My father apparently loved the idea of exploring new territories in this very simple, folksy manner of life in the 1950's. Though the car was far from luxurious, the back seat seemed huge to me, having it all to myself as I did--kind of like having my own room on wheels. 
     I usually took a few comic books with me in case things got long and boring in that way that adults have of making otherwise pleasant moments into sheer drudgery from the point of view of kids. I will say, however, that I mostly enjoyed sitting in the back seat peering out the window, seeing the interesting new sights as we tootled along.
     I don't remember all the places we went on those drives because there was no need to--I was just a kid in the back seat. There was one, though, that I remember very explicitly--most especially a single moment of it. 
     On that day, my father had decided to head north from Medford (where we lived) and take a longer excursion than usual. Of course I don't have any idea what route we took because I didn't have to--I was just a kid in the back seat. 
     We ended up in a wonderful town. It was unlike any place I had ever been, and I thought that the houses were beautiful and I tried to imagine what it would be like to live there. Then my father, following his inner compass and instincts, made a turn off the main drag, and we passed by a place where some men seemed to be having a nice time,casually strolling along and talking. They were dressed in black suits as I recall.
     For some reason, both the place and the men were intriguing to me. I don't know why (or I didn't know at the time), but I asked my parents, "What's that place?" My father said, "That's where people go to become ministers." Just for the record, I always thought ministers were strange, even scary people with their black suits and somber faces.
     The town: Princeton, NJ. The place: Princeton Theological Seminary where I would go decades later to become a minister. Who knew? Certainly not my parents and certainly not me, a kid in back seat curiously staring out the window at my future.
     I believe that perhaps for all of us if we have had eyes to see or memories to refer to, there have been hints graciously given to us throughout our lifetime about who we are and what we shall become, and maybe even an awareness that we don't go it alone in this world, and our lives have a meaning beyond our ability to comprehend.
     Just a thought.

"AYE, THERE'S THE RUB"

At the  lake in the Poconos

The year 2018, from here on out, will go zooming by into oblivion, so to speak, leaving behind it a trail of faded ambitions that I had for making it a year of new accomplishments and experiences. Some of those things happened, some did not. But all that I promised myself that I would do and be, all that I said I would finally have time to get around to, all that in my mind seemed entirely possible, still linger in the sanctuary of my heart and are not forgotten.
     But, of course, I realize that it is a common trait of human thinking to imagine things on a grander scale than life itself will sometimes allow to happen. On the other hand, it is also a common human trait to make excuses for why things were not or are not possible. 
     The thought that comes to mind is a line from the famous "To be, or not to be" soliloquy from Hamlet: "aye, there's the rub." In other words, there is an underlying tension that hums at the center of the human spirit that makes life both interesting and frustrating at the same time. 
     As a child, I was a dreamer--a day dreamer--always imagining myself being able to do amazing things. In part, that was because I felt very inadequate when it came to some real life challenges like playing sports--a very important ability in the lives of kids in the 1950's. Also, other kids always seem to know so much more than me about almost everything. I didn't know how they knew things, they just did. 
     But now that I'm 75 years old, I have come to the place wherein I realize that life is a series of successes and failures, opportunities and detours, joys and sorrows, ease and struggles--"aye, there's the rub." However, let it be known that that is the way life simply is and not the result of some mean spirited force that gets amusement from human misery and pain. 

Sunset Prophets

     I say all this to make a point, and the point is that we all still need to dream no matter who we are and how old we are, to sometimes think big, to continue to make promises to ourselves that we may or may not be able keep, depending on the unfolding circumstances of our lives, and to come to terms with the greater reality that the best thing we can do is to accept ourselves as truly lovable people who mean well and whose lives are important to the creative and positive energy of the world.

A BRIDGE TO CROSS

    

 One of the things that I like to do now that I am retired is to take the long way home when I go on errands. I call them "excursions," following meandering roads through the countryside and sometimes even through a covered bridge here and there.  I suppose that the fact that I have an app on my phone that will guide me home whenever I happen to wander too far astray makes it seem less daring, and probably much less of a true adventure. But still, it definitely feels like I'm doing something wonderfully carefree while claiming my right to enjoy life without guilt or anxiety.

     Days like that are so refreshingly joyful in subtle ways that it makes me realize just how fortunate I am at this stage of my life, having gone through a few difficult years here and there. When I say that, I am quite aware of the fact that nothing I have experienced comes even close to what some people have had to face in their lifetime.

     I know that many people have suffered excruciating pain from the loss of a loved one, illness that seemed to have come out of nowhere, homes destroyed by fire or storm, and dozens of other kinds of tragedies. Yet I have known people who have faced those times with an amazing stamina and, in some cases, even keeping a relatively positive outlook on life. That, by the way, is not meant to suggest that there is anything inappropriate about feeling extreme sadness or depression or even anger under those circumstances. As a matter of fact, it is quite normal.

     What I am wanting to say is that we all go through difficult times in different ways. But one of the things that helps us regain our balance and eventually be restored to a healthy place emotionally, spiritually, and even physically at times, are the people of our lives--family, friends, and sometimes mere acquaintances who have been there for us when the forces of life were against us.
 
     I know for myself that one of the things I want to be sure to include in my giving thanks in the upcoming Thanksgiving Day celebration is to remember all the people who have helped me in so many ways in difficult or trying times; people who said just the right things to me; people who reached out to me when I needed reassurance that I was okay; people who provided for me when I was in need. Bottom line: I want to pass through that bridge that leads from merely living on one side to deep love and appreciation for the many wonderfully supportive people of my life on the other.  

A SEASON FOR LETTING GO

I took these pictures yesterday. Baldpate Mountain is showing its fall colors in its usual splendid way. And our maple trees are getting ready to drop their leaves for our annual golden-carpeted lawn. 
Actually, one of my current favorite singers, Carrie Newcomer, sings "Leave Don't Drop, They just let go." Sounds less fatalistic, more natural.

Every year I have suggested that we rake some of them up and spread them out over the living room floor. We haven't done that yet and we're not likely ever to do so for some very practical reasons. It's just a way of my expressing appreciation for "the beauty of the earth."🎜🎝

I watched a PBS series recently called "Autumnwatch New England." I thought it was great for a couple of reasons. One is the fact that New England is one of my favorite places to visit in any season of the year. The other is that I have been feeling the need to step aside from what's going on in our country at the moment, filled as it is with a constant state of turmoil and uncertainty, animosity and division.

By the way, "escape" (aka "step aside") does not always have a negative connotation, as if a person is being unrealistic or naive. As far as I'm concerned, It is very much a necessary ingredient into a healthy sense of well-being. 

One thing more, the season change, the time change, and the leaves letting go of the branches they've held onto all spring and summer makes me think that it's time for me also to let go of whatever I've been holding onto that has had any kind of negative influence in my view of life, and renew my hope, joy, and thanksgiving for just being alive.

THE CALL OF THE NOT-SO-WILD

   

I made a solo trip to LBI last week, just to sit by the sea for a while. We hadn’t been able to get there all this past summer because so many other things were going on in our lives. I took a beach chair, a journal, a sweatshirt (just in case), and coffee, of course. I drove to Centre Street in Beach Haven, parked my car, and found a spot to call “home” for a couple of hours. I know that the phrase “it was a spiritual experience” is quite overused these days, but there are legitimate moments that definitely fit that description, and that was one of them for me.

            It was a really nice time sitting there listening to the waves crashing on the beach and admiring the great expanse of the sea, and trying to get the message across to an attentive seagull that I had nothing to offer it. The air was pleasantly balmy—forget the sweatshirt. I couldn’t help but take off my shoes and walk down to the water’s edge to test the temperature of the living waters with its salt and shells and wet sand. It was like stepping into nature’s sauna, though of a cooler variety—not the type in a small room filled with steam. Much bigger, but just as personal.

            But here’s the thing that I want to share about that: It was raining when I got up that morning—not hard, but raining nonetheless. Not the perfect beach day. So I almost didn’t go. But I did eventually get into the car and head off. On Rt. 539, down around Whiting, it started to rain even harder. I almost turned around, thinking that maybe there was another day in the near future that would be better. But I kept on going because I really wanted to be on the beach.

            I got to the Causeway and a little bit of sun came out. I got on the island and a lot more sun came out. Suddenly it was the perfect beach day, and all was well. Then I thought about the fact that if I had given in to the inclination to not go or not to keep on going, I would have missed a wonderful opportunity to follow my heart’s longing.

            When it was time to pack up, I had one more thing I wanted to do: Have some New England clam chowder from the little shop in Bay Village, if they were still open. They were and I did.

          

             Why I’m sharing this with you is because it occurs to me that we no doubt often miss out on many rich moments of life because things don’t look promising or it feels as if the tide of life is against us. We get discouraged and say it’s for another day. And in many cases, I suppose, we are wise to heed the signs when it comes to the less important inspirations of a moment.

            Yet, in that deeper place in our hearts, when we are especially in need of healing or hope or self-care, I wonder if we give up too easily, and dismiss those opportunities as being frivolous or foolish anyway? They aren’t, of course. In fact they may be the most significant things we can do for ourselves. I think the Divine forces of life are at work to enable us to experience just what we need if we are persistent. By the way, when I  got off the beach, it started to rain again.           

TEACHERS (An Abbreviated Memoir, Part 1)

Our house on Main Street in Medford was getting painted when I was probably around 9 or 10. I only remember the first name of the man who was doing the painting—Sam. He looked to me to be an old man, but that’s from the perspective of a kid’s eye-view. He was probably in his fifties. He wore a white painter’s cap and white painter’s bib overalls.

            It was in the summer, and so I was off from school. Every day I would go out and watch him do his job. I was fascinated by the whole process, and I would ask him questions about why he did this or why he did that, and he never seemed to get impatient with me. I remember loving how the paint smelled and the careful way he went about the business of brushing it on each and every board. As far as I was concerned, he was an artist.

            When it was time for him to eat his lunch, he would sit on the front porch steps. I asked my mother if she would make me my lunch, which she did, and I took it outside and sat beside him. I don’t remember what we talked about but I remember we talked. He never asked me to leave him alone so he could get a break from a little boy’s ongoing chatter. And I felt as though I was sitting next to a very important person.

            Sam was one of the teachers of my life. Oh, he didn’t teach me how to paint. As a matter of fact, I don’t really like painting. I’ve done it, but only out of necessity. But Sam taught me something else that was very important: He taught me that the people who do things in this world and who do them with care and love, are important people.

            Then one day I was 12. Old enough to be confirmed, so under some parental duress, I joined Rev. Paul Meyer’s Confirmation Class. I don’t think I was a very good student, but I guess I did enough to make it through to the end. One of the requirements that I managed to meet, though, was to begin attending church regularly. But at 12, church seemed to be primarily for adults.

            The sermons were meaningless to me—just something you had to put up with, and they seem to have nothing to do with my life, as far as I was concerned. Nothing against the preachers, per se, you understand. I was a kid who would much rather be in the woods exploring, pretending to be Davy Crockett or some other hero of the wilderness.

            But here’s the thing: there was an elderly man named At Wells, who was, I guess, a head usher and greeter. I put it that way because to be honest, I don’t remember if he had an official title. However, he was there every Sunday in the vestibule getting things organized and ready. When I started showing up for church, At said to me, “How would you like a job?” I told him that I would like that, so he assigned me the task of folding the bulletins, which I took to immediately. I was very careful to make sure every bulletin was neatly creased so that the people who got them would be somehow impressed by my skill and precision. Of course, the truth is, I don’t know that it made a difference to anyone, but I was 12 years old—so what did I know?

            At first I was a bit sloppy, not because I was careless, but because I’ve never been adept at doing things of that sort with my hands. So At told me that what I was doing was important and that I needed to have a system. So he set me up with a lectern in the vestibule that had a frame around it that I could use to align the edges. Suddenly I was an expert and I faithfully showed up early on Sunday mornings because I had an important job to do.

            At Wells was one of my teachers. Even the smaller tasks in life are important. And the people who do them may not get any recognition. But even if they don’t, what they do behind the scenes, if done with love and care, makes a difference in how life feels to us. Further, the efforts we personally make with things however seemingly small they may be, contribute to the good and the joy of life experiences.

            I’ve had a lot of teachers in my life, inside and outside of the classroom. In my freshman year in high school, my homeroom teacher confronted me when I walked into my homeroom one morning. He had a stern look on his face as he backed me up against the wall (never laying a finger on me, by the way), and he told me that he had been talking to my English teacher, and he found out that I had not handed in the writing assignment that was due a few days ago.  In no uncertain terms, he told me that I was an intelligent young man, and that I needed to get on the ball and hand in that homework before I got a failing grade.

            I don’t remember his name—it was so long ago. As I recall, he looked a lot like BoNewhart, and I often think of him when I see Bob Newhart on TV.  But, you know, that’s the first time anyone called me “an intelligent young man.” It’s just a phrase really, but it did something to me: first, that he should care what I do and what I don’t do and second, that I could actually be thought of as intelligent. I say that because, unashamedly, I was in a special reading group when I was in the third grade because I was considered a slow reader. Since that time, I had always thought of myself in that context.

            Whenever Fred Rogers had an occasion to give a speech, he would ask the audience to take a few seconds and think and give thanks in their hearts to the people who have made them what they are. It always effected the people deeply who were listening to him, even to the extent that there were tears in their eyes, even among the supposedly toughest in the crowd. (On You Tube you can hear the commencement address he gave at Darmouth in 2002 or upon receiving a lifetime achievement award at the Emmy’s in 1997,  both of which illustrate that).

            By the way, all of us are teachers to somebody, maybe a lot of somebodies. I wonder what we’re teaching and to whom? I’m going to think about that for myself.