Hello at the end of the week,
It is difficult to believe we are almost into the year holiday season. This coming week I will fly back to Iowa to spend Thanksgiving with family. Certainly, holidays are a different time for each of us; they bring back memories, which for some are blessed and bring back the important moments of those we have loved and lost, bittersweet of sorts. For some, those memories are painful because of the inevitable changes that occur as we age. The idea of thanksgiving is so much more than those grade school programs where we did our best to address the idea of harmony in our costumes that we had often created out of colored construction paper, presenting to our parents and grandparents as they sat on the hard benches in our school auditorium. As we grow we learn how complex the idea of thankfulness really is. What does it mean to really be grateful for what we have, for what we have experienced, or even the reality that we are still here for yet another holiday season? The reality of life becomes painfully apparent for many when they move toward this season and someone deeply loved is no longer present. I think of my former colleague who recently lost his wife, and childhood sweetheart after 69 years. In spite of her passing probably being a blessing, the lost is unparalleled. What makes a life fulfilling? That is something I have pondered as of late. What is it that offers a sense of contentment, a feeling of accomplishment, not in an arrogant manner, but rather feeling it’s been worth it?
What I have realized, particularly in the last year, is the degree to which we need validation, but too often that validation comes from others. How it is a person might find that sense of completion at every turn, even when the outcome is less than hoped for? I think it has to do with a sense of faithfulness, believing that everything we have offers opportunity and blessing. One of the things I find intriguing is how faithfulness allows for a sense of serenity, a feeling of direction and purpose even in the midst of the most trying of times. The Japanese practice of Bushido, the living code of the feudal lords of the Samurai that focused on loyalty and honor, of discipline and fear of nothing, save defeat, is both something that real and mythical, but I believe there is something to appreciate in its code. The movie, The Last Samurai, is probably by favorite Tom Cruise movie, even more than either his MI movies or Top Gun. When his character, Captain Algren, meets in the garden and Katsumoto notes, while searching for the perfect blossom, the importance of “life in every breath.” Each time I have watched the movie, I find myself drawn to this statement. I see a parallel between what was happening in Japan in the 1870s (what was referred to as a struggle for the soul of Japan in the move toward modernity), and what I see happening in our country at the moment, but that is for another time. The idea of seeing my life in every breath compels me to consider my own path, my own commitment to life as something more than merely going through the motions. As we find our daily life being pulled toward a word of technology that offers instant answers, as we find a world that seems to have lost its moral compass, as it appears the reality of care for the other is something of the past, I find myself struggling to find my own path forward. Where to I belong or in what can I find a place to believe? If I simplify to the idea of every breath matters, that it is a gift as foundational and profound as life itself, perhaps it is there I might find hope in this world that seems more crazy than planned.
I am not sure if it is age, if it is retirement, if it is the profound change that retirement has created, but I find that I take nothing for granted at the moment. There are no guarantees of anything (in spite of the death and taxes cliché – not even understanding the taxes and how it all changes) except that I will die at some point. That is not being morbid, again, but rather merely reality. I remember the first time I worried about mortality. It was when I was in Lehighton, and I was flying to Arizona for a specialized and complex surgery (it was actually two surgeries over a three month period). My Crohn’s was so active that I had no quality of life, and I was in my 30s. I remember planning my funeral service. I still think of some of the music that I chose, and I would still choose. Will life be something that was a quest (considering the well-known song from the movie, Man of La Mancha, which ironically opened on Broadway 60 years ago yesterday), and if so what makes it so? I think too often we worry about what will happen versus what is happening. This is not to say planning or imagining is inappropriate, but rather living in the moment and cherishing what we have in that moment seems more relevant to me at this point. We are foolish to believe there is something more that we have some sense of control over. How do we appreciate the moment? It is possible to live in the present and imagine the future simultaneously? I think this is where I am presently wrestling. I spent so much of my time living in the present semester during the past three years, concomitantly planning for what was to come. It was the reason for the teaching year round, taking overloads. And to be sure, it did some of the things I hoped, but was I read for the other side of August 2024? In spite of all that planning and imagining, I was not ready. Before you think I am detesting retirement, I am not, but there are so many aspects of it that have surprised me.
Possibly there is no adequate preparation for life after routine; is it conceivable that what our job/vocation was becomes so much of our identity. I think that is certainly the case for me. I am reminded of it daily when people refer to me as Dr. Martin. Surely, I have earned that title, and I lived a significant portion of my life being that professor, and just this past week, an unexpected crossing of paths, offered the opportunity to speak with a former student. His words were both appreciated and gratifying when he noted two different assignments were important to him even now. What I realize is much of my life as a professor was living in the moment. It was being there in the moments for my students; it was realizing that what I did could make a difference for those in my classroom. By the time I retired, I had learned how to work together with my students in a way that demonstrated they mattered. They were the reason I was there. Every moment had meaning; it had (and always has) the potential to make a difference. This is the daily philosophy I used in my teaching. Again, to be fair, that is something I evolved into. I did not always see or manage that early in my career. There is learning that occurs on both sides of that blank stare, that is for sure. I have often said, I should probably go back to those students in my first couple years and apologize, though even then, I know there are some with whom I succeeded.
Someone asked me recently if I was afraid of dying, and I easily answered no. I added, I am much more afraid of hurting, being in pain, for dying slowly as a burden. The actual reality of no longer being in the world is not something I fret over. I see life as a gift certainly, but I see death as a normal part of the process. I remember as we move into Thanksgiving week, it was the day after Thanksgiving that my father received a diagnosis of multiple cancers in his body. He died only three days after Christmas. It was swift, and while not painless, there was no sort of lingering waiting for the inevitable. There is something kind in all of that. I remember my sister calling to tell me she believed she should take him to the hospital that Saturday afternoon because of the intensity of his pain. I told her to do what she believed best. He died less than 24 hours later on that early Sunday morning. I was heading out the door to travel and preach at a three-point parish. I held it together pretty well, until the prayers. Then I broke down and began to cry. This morning, I spoke with one of the morning group. He recently lost his wife, and he noted that he was working on something around the house the other day and just broke down. First, I told him it was good to do so, and then I thought about this blog. That is living in the moment and realizing the frailty of life. It is living in the moment: life in every breath. We have an incredible gift daily, hourly, even to the second, but we take so much for granted. I am no different. How can I live in a way that demonstrates that gratitude for the life I have been blessed to have. In this time of Thanksgiving, it seems I can dedicate myself to the love of the other, realizing that in every breath I have an opportunity to make a difference, if I only take the time to consider it. What wondrous love we have been given and need simultaneously to give. It is one of the songs I want song at my funeral. It is a reminder that we were created in love, we have been nourished by love, and it is in loving that we are allowed to live a life in every breath to its fullest.
Blessed Thanksgiving to you all, and thank you for reading.
Michael
thewritingprofessor55 