Dear You,
On a recent evening with friends I noticed a little pile of stones surrounding a potted plant on a side table. "I pick them up wherever I go," explained my hostess. And she listed some of her favorite places, each stone provoking a smile and a memory.
In nearly every room of my house are little things -- a tiny clock here, a glass figure there, little bits gathered from a long-ago beach walk and little presents brought back from trips. If I really worked at it, I could catalog them; no doubt, however, I would forget a few -- there are so very many. What I enjoy, then, is the happy discovery (and the resultant memory) when my eye falls on one of these when I am otherwise occupied. I might open a drawer, or push aside a photo frame, or reach for a book . . . and there it is: Didn't that come from Manomet? I muse?
No doubt nearby is an old woman or man in a nursing home, looking back and trying to recapture a lost adventure, struggling through the cobwebs of fading memory. If she or he is fortunate, some object from that past is at hand to light the way.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Shhhh. Listen
Dear You,
Despite all the notations on my calendar, I lead a quiet life. Last evening, sitting alone in a room darkened with the draperies drawn against the heat, holding the stem of my wine glass, I looked at the framed certificates on the wall, the academic accomplishments of my hosts for the dinner to come. And I reflected -- not for the first time -- that I now can look into a mirror that is already six decades deep.
What brought me to that room at that moment is, of course, the result of hundreds of decisions and choices that I made (many based on insufficient evidence, but let that pass for now). More, however, seem to have been the result of mere happenstance. And it occurs to me that at least a small measure of wisdom comes from knowing the difference.
I am no longer convinced, as I once was, that I am Captain of my Fate. I am not so arrogant to believe that I owe no debt to those many others who multiplied my efforts in life. I am not so smug to think there is no Higher Power that has put fortune in my path, often when I most needed it. What portion of ambition and intelligence I possessed and have been able to marshall along the way has taken me pretty far, I think. But those alone cannot explain why I sat there so contentedly, sampling a very nice little merlot and awaiting a dinner I did not earn.
Despite all the notations on my calendar, I lead a quiet life. Last evening, sitting alone in a room darkened with the draperies drawn against the heat, holding the stem of my wine glass, I looked at the framed certificates on the wall, the academic accomplishments of my hosts for the dinner to come. And I reflected -- not for the first time -- that I now can look into a mirror that is already six decades deep.
What brought me to that room at that moment is, of course, the result of hundreds of decisions and choices that I made (many based on insufficient evidence, but let that pass for now). More, however, seem to have been the result of mere happenstance. And it occurs to me that at least a small measure of wisdom comes from knowing the difference.
I am no longer convinced, as I once was, that I am Captain of my Fate. I am not so arrogant to believe that I owe no debt to those many others who multiplied my efforts in life. I am not so smug to think there is no Higher Power that has put fortune in my path, often when I most needed it. What portion of ambition and intelligence I possessed and have been able to marshall along the way has taken me pretty far, I think. But those alone cannot explain why I sat there so contentedly, sampling a very nice little merlot and awaiting a dinner I did not earn.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Once more, sledding downhill
Dear You,
A key to most novels is discovering the effect of earlier events and decisions. Indulging her hypochondria, Zeena invites her pretty cousin Mattie to keep the house ... and husband Ethan comes to realize the awful truth of his loveless marriage. Crash. And isn't it interesting to ponder how many collisions you and I experience, the unforeseen consequencs of our youthful choices?
I thought of this last Saturday, when I picked up my three-month supply of various medications and signed the paper to pay $260. Nearly half of that is for the pill that keeps my arteries from becoming further clogged. Ninety tablets, $333.08 and the insurance pays $228.08 of it. I pay $105. At the time my thoughts divided: "Whew, I'm glad I don't have to pay the whole $928.91!" and "Yikes! $260 on the credit card!" and the second thought made me yearn for even better prescription medicine coverage.
Now, of course, I'm able to reflect further. And I know that my share (as well as that portion borne by ... whom? my neighbors, in some sense of the word) is the result of years of sloth (I loathe exercise) and greed (I love a triple bacon cheeseburger at the drive-thru). Way too late ... for Zeena, for me ... for you, too? ... comes reform. Zeena doesn't get her husband back (well, she does, but you'll have to read Ethan Frome to see how that works), and I can't take the stents from out my heart (Sorry, Poe). But I'm walking more often, and I haven't bought a burger in a year.
A key to most novels is discovering the effect of earlier events and decisions. Indulging her hypochondria, Zeena invites her pretty cousin Mattie to keep the house ... and husband Ethan comes to realize the awful truth of his loveless marriage. Crash. And isn't it interesting to ponder how many collisions you and I experience, the unforeseen consequencs of our youthful choices?
I thought of this last Saturday, when I picked up my three-month supply of various medications and signed the paper to pay $260. Nearly half of that is for the pill that keeps my arteries from becoming further clogged. Ninety tablets, $333.08 and the insurance pays $228.08 of it. I pay $105. At the time my thoughts divided: "Whew, I'm glad I don't have to pay the whole $928.91!" and "Yikes! $260 on the credit card!" and the second thought made me yearn for even better prescription medicine coverage.
Now, of course, I'm able to reflect further. And I know that my share (as well as that portion borne by ... whom? my neighbors, in some sense of the word) is the result of years of sloth (I loathe exercise) and greed (I love a triple bacon cheeseburger at the drive-thru). Way too late ... for Zeena, for me ... for you, too? ... comes reform. Zeena doesn't get her husband back (well, she does, but you'll have to read Ethan Frome to see how that works), and I can't take the stents from out my heart (Sorry, Poe). But I'm walking more often, and I haven't bought a burger in a year.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Along the barge canal
Dear You,
Hamlin Garland once observed that the highway is traveled by all sorts of people, but that the poor and the weary predominate. Still true today -- probably moreso. Yet I find in my time and in my place, the places where I find myself most often, the poor are invisible.
It was with surprise, then, that I came upon a vagrant yesterday. I was cycling along the barge canal just outside Pittsford (where per capita income is unarguably rather high), and I spotted what I took to be a pile of discarded clothes in the weeds beside the trail. As I passed I could see worn boots on one end and a cradled mass of hair at the other. My next thought was that it was a corpse and nearly stopped. Then I realized that this man was no doubt sleeping in the afternoon warmth, and the other bikers, hikers, joggers that were taking this path would surely have determined whether someone were dead or not!
A half hour or so later, as I was returning to where I'd left my car, I passed him again; this time he was afoot. Thin. Shambling along. Eyes downcast. He looked up, nodded. I nodded.
But for those two separated moments he exists only in my memory. Awhile later, as I sat outside a coffee shop, I watched people feeding the ducks, tossing crumbs from their bags into the water. ($1 a bag; available from the table near the door.) Young people walked by wearing tee shirts with names of universities across their chests, talking on their cell phones or discussing the contents of their shopping bags. Briefly I took notice of the young woman who selttled next to me on the bench to adjust her inline skates. Then I wondered -- again -- if the rumpled man was still walking along the canal . . . and where? Bushnell's Basin? on to Fairport? All the way out to Palmyra? Where would he find his dinner, and where his bed that night?
I can't know the answers because I did not stop . . . neither in the going out nor the coming back. I didn't stop to ask.
Hamlin Garland once observed that the highway is traveled by all sorts of people, but that the poor and the weary predominate. Still true today -- probably moreso. Yet I find in my time and in my place, the places where I find myself most often, the poor are invisible.
It was with surprise, then, that I came upon a vagrant yesterday. I was cycling along the barge canal just outside Pittsford (where per capita income is unarguably rather high), and I spotted what I took to be a pile of discarded clothes in the weeds beside the trail. As I passed I could see worn boots on one end and a cradled mass of hair at the other. My next thought was that it was a corpse and nearly stopped. Then I realized that this man was no doubt sleeping in the afternoon warmth, and the other bikers, hikers, joggers that were taking this path would surely have determined whether someone were dead or not!
A half hour or so later, as I was returning to where I'd left my car, I passed him again; this time he was afoot. Thin. Shambling along. Eyes downcast. He looked up, nodded. I nodded.
But for those two separated moments he exists only in my memory. Awhile later, as I sat outside a coffee shop, I watched people feeding the ducks, tossing crumbs from their bags into the water. ($1 a bag; available from the table near the door.) Young people walked by wearing tee shirts with names of universities across their chests, talking on their cell phones or discussing the contents of their shopping bags. Briefly I took notice of the young woman who selttled next to me on the bench to adjust her inline skates. Then I wondered -- again -- if the rumpled man was still walking along the canal . . . and where? Bushnell's Basin? on to Fairport? All the way out to Palmyra? Where would he find his dinner, and where his bed that night?
I can't know the answers because I did not stop . . . neither in the going out nor the coming back. I didn't stop to ask.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Round and round we go
Dear You,
Sixteen years ago we bought the house we now live in from Frank and Susan. It was in beautiful condition, with everything we were looking for . . . but facing a busy highway. The owners were already thinking of the time when their young daughter might go down the driveway on a bike and into the path of a speeding truck. Or something like it. So they put the house up for sale and were having one just like it built in a quieter part of town.
Yesterday evening my wife took one of those Alumni Fund calls from her alma mater -- a young woman named Lauren, an art major and very chatty . . . and soon learned that she is the now-grown daughter of Frank and Susan. The two talked of the sandbox that once sat under the willow tree in the back yard -- the first removed to plant grass and the other felled after an ice storm ruined it. How they both love our community and what it's like to attend that university now . . . and it ended with, of course, a donation to the school.
Lauren did in fact go down the driveway, where she continues to have all sorts of life-changing collisions and seems happy with who and what and where she is just now, just as over those 16 years have we.
I write this not just because it's another example of that well-worn observation of "Small World, Isn't It?" but because of its larger truth: that despite the apparent chaos of the universe, there is fundamentally a roundness to it all. Every decision, every choice -- even when it seems meaningless at the time (or worse, an error!) -- ultimately comes to some (probably unforeseen) end that brings equilibrium. Should we not take comfort in this awareness? We just think such things are in novels, not for us.
Sixteen years ago we bought the house we now live in from Frank and Susan. It was in beautiful condition, with everything we were looking for . . . but facing a busy highway. The owners were already thinking of the time when their young daughter might go down the driveway on a bike and into the path of a speeding truck. Or something like it. So they put the house up for sale and were having one just like it built in a quieter part of town.
Yesterday evening my wife took one of those Alumni Fund calls from her alma mater -- a young woman named Lauren, an art major and very chatty . . . and soon learned that she is the now-grown daughter of Frank and Susan. The two talked of the sandbox that once sat under the willow tree in the back yard -- the first removed to plant grass and the other felled after an ice storm ruined it. How they both love our community and what it's like to attend that university now . . . and it ended with, of course, a donation to the school.
Lauren did in fact go down the driveway, where she continues to have all sorts of life-changing collisions and seems happy with who and what and where she is just now, just as over those 16 years have we.
I write this not just because it's another example of that well-worn observation of "Small World, Isn't It?" but because of its larger truth: that despite the apparent chaos of the universe, there is fundamentally a roundness to it all. Every decision, every choice -- even when it seems meaningless at the time (or worse, an error!) -- ultimately comes to some (probably unforeseen) end that brings equilibrium. Should we not take comfort in this awareness? We just think such things are in novels, not for us.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Making Waves
Dear You,
We have looked into the depths of the ocean and the far reaches of space, but who really knows the truth about himself? Like an onion, each of us is layers and layers of self-deception. A second cousin is in prison after years of lying to himself about his alcoholism . . . until he drunkenly wrecked his car and killed someone. Now, with years of time in a cell, he writes pages and pages of self-analysis. While I don't recommend a prison term, who among us would not profit from time spent looking within?
Recently someone quoted from a memoir: "You can't see your reflection in moving waters." I've been thinking about that, exploring its truth. The idea is that if one wants to plumb the depths of the least-understood place on earth, the Self, one needs quiet and solitude.
But I look at my calendar with dismay. Busy, busy, busy. A rushed trip to Ohio here, a dinner party there, tickets to this play and that symphony -- all before tackling the stack of books and magazines that daily continues to grow. As I type this, I have NPR on the radio, and I'm listening to news. Perhaps at one time "retirement" meant some period of quiet and the opportunity to reflect on one's life. Today, lacking the dramatic event that suggests one should make a change in his life, it appears as unlikely as my decision to write on tomorrow's calendar page, "7-9 a.m. Explore Self."
We have looked into the depths of the ocean and the far reaches of space, but who really knows the truth about himself? Like an onion, each of us is layers and layers of self-deception. A second cousin is in prison after years of lying to himself about his alcoholism . . . until he drunkenly wrecked his car and killed someone. Now, with years of time in a cell, he writes pages and pages of self-analysis. While I don't recommend a prison term, who among us would not profit from time spent looking within?
Recently someone quoted from a memoir: "You can't see your reflection in moving waters." I've been thinking about that, exploring its truth. The idea is that if one wants to plumb the depths of the least-understood place on earth, the Self, one needs quiet and solitude.
But I look at my calendar with dismay. Busy, busy, busy. A rushed trip to Ohio here, a dinner party there, tickets to this play and that symphony -- all before tackling the stack of books and magazines that daily continues to grow. As I type this, I have NPR on the radio, and I'm listening to news. Perhaps at one time "retirement" meant some period of quiet and the opportunity to reflect on one's life. Today, lacking the dramatic event that suggests one should make a change in his life, it appears as unlikely as my decision to write on tomorrow's calendar page, "7-9 a.m. Explore Self."
Thursday, September 13, 2007
My Aunt's Legacy
Dear You,
Because she created such an imagined life, my aunt now finds herself in an awful fix. For over a half-century, Aunt G arranged everything as though she had been born into privilege. With a husband who did her bidding and worked sometimes three jobs to provide, she made her house secure, her acquaintances limited, and her outlook narrow. Now she is old and mostly friendless, and she is terrified.
I do not diminish her gifts, nor do I love her less for knowing all this. I have some sense of what it took her to move from a deprived childhood -- father dead when she was a teenager, the Depression making the family hungry and without a home, and who knows what else? I know she has always been intelligent. She has always been generous and loving to me. But on one enormous truth she was blind.
It matters little what you have -- possessions, money, clothes, address -- if you do not weave a tapestry of relationships while you can, before you grow cold with age and need the comfort only that can provide. What friends she had are dead or dying. Many in the family now keep their distance, and those who remain cannot possibly provide all that she requires.
On the occasions when I can visit I come away with great sadness.
Because she created such an imagined life, my aunt now finds herself in an awful fix. For over a half-century, Aunt G arranged everything as though she had been born into privilege. With a husband who did her bidding and worked sometimes three jobs to provide, she made her house secure, her acquaintances limited, and her outlook narrow. Now she is old and mostly friendless, and she is terrified.
I do not diminish her gifts, nor do I love her less for knowing all this. I have some sense of what it took her to move from a deprived childhood -- father dead when she was a teenager, the Depression making the family hungry and without a home, and who knows what else? I know she has always been intelligent. She has always been generous and loving to me. But on one enormous truth she was blind.
It matters little what you have -- possessions, money, clothes, address -- if you do not weave a tapestry of relationships while you can, before you grow cold with age and need the comfort only that can provide. What friends she had are dead or dying. Many in the family now keep their distance, and those who remain cannot possibly provide all that she requires.
On the occasions when I can visit I come away with great sadness.
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