And So It Goes

Hello from another day of grading and coffee shops (not completely, but I will explain),

It is another weekend, and for the moment it seems more like a September afternoon (though now overcast) than almost Halloween. I looked at my hometown in Iowa, and I spoke to Max up in Houghton, and both places were receiving snow. The forecast for the coming week here in Bloomsburg is an undeniable reality check that we are almost halfway through autumn. It has been a rainy, but mild fall, and the colors have been quite spectacular. The last days have been windy, resulting in leaves flying out of the trees, much like someone throwing everything collected in a dust pan into the breeze. The rustling of leaves between my feet, the sound of the wind in half-bare trees are unmistakeable signs of what is to come. And so it goes, the seasons move always more quickly than the year before. Autumn has always been my favorite time of year. The cool, crisp mornings, and the first wafing of wood smoke from those who use wood stoves and fireplaces; the warm and sunny afternoons, often making it difficult to figure out a daily wardrobe, and yet offering possibilities of one last laying down of a blanket and lounging in the warmth of those fading chance of tanning; and, for me in particular, the reality of a new group of students and classes, invigorating my brain and my soul with new options each have been things that offer me comfort in our crazy and unpredictable world. What I am realizing is much of my comfort is in predictability. Perhaps that is why a school year, a semester, a week’s plan have been so important to me throughout my life. I realize that learning/school/education was something I could do for myself. It was an opportunity to succeed. What is important in that realization was (and is) the accountability placed on me. I did not always accept that accountability. It was easier to blame the teacher, the instructor, and eventually the professor if I did not do well, but that was misguided. Certainly the person on the other-side-of-the-blank-stare has influence, but ultimately it about what I chose to do. A poor grade is an evaluation of the effort given more than what the instructor did. What I have learned is quite basic. If I do not understand something it is not necessarily the fault of the other, it is my responsibility to ask the question. And yet, that is about life in general . . . and so it goes.

I will add a paragraph here that will reveal that this was written a little over two years ago. Somehow, it as listed as private, so I am not sure it ever published. It is interesting to see what I was thinking about then, to imagine what I was feeling. The parallels are striking that two years later there is more than one similarity.

As I sit here in Brewskis today, it is more about the food than coffee at the moment. It is easy to snack and work, but the snacking is about eating something healthy also. This morning, after the first trip this week to meet the coffee clatch (all the OWG as I call us), I got some errands run, but received a phone call from a former student/now mother/brilliant/compassionate/phenomenal individual. Hard to comprehend I have known them half their life. I had them in more than one class, and they served as an editor for my dissertation. It is sometimes both stunning, and yet a blessing, how someone can put a completely different bent on what your day might hold. Last evening, while at a social event/fire pit event (and as seems to be the case more often than I tend to realize (admit), I felt conflicted, the conflict is feeling pulled between desiring to be there, but never feeling comfortable where I fit. Sometimes I find myself “deep inside myself” (Joel, “Honesty”). Last night one of my better friends in the department asked why I looked so desolate. Yikes! And yet, was I? I responded I was merely gazing into the fire, but perhaps they were more accurate than I realized. It was that wondering once again where I fit. What I have come to terms with, at least to some degree, is 23 years of being single for the most part has become how I understand myself. It is where I see myself. There is an incredible freedom in that solitude, but there are other realities. There are still times it would be nice to have that need to be responsible to another on a personal level. The difficulty is figuring out how to move toward that versus jumping in the deep end of the proverbial pool. I find myself trying to understand what such a possibility requires . . . and who decides. I cannot make that decision on my own, and perhaps that realization is what tends to overwhelm me. This internal reflection has pushed me to consider things I have been most comfortable pushing away most of my life. As someone married twice, and having failed both times, it is incredibly important to do the hard work to understand those failures. I was an inconsistent husband. And as an inconsistent partner, it can be argued I was something more than merely unsuccessful. I was a flounderer. I was naïve in what I believed I could do, and what I actually accomplished. Let me say this: while there were errors on both sides, I need to be honest about my own lack of competence, for the disappointment I created. I am reminded how my former counselor, one who knows me well after working with me for 6 years, once told me that I was the most brilliant person he had ever met who was so “fuckin’ stupid” about women (his actual words). I think when he said that (in 2002) he was probably correct. I would like to believe a quarter of a century later, and in spite of being single most of it, I have learned so much. And so it goes. What are my difficulties at this point, at least in my own evaluation? I think it is because I am an unfettered, idealist, at least when it comes to relationships. I am a hopeless romantic. Neither of those things really occur in any other area of my life, so why when it comes to relationships? That is something I have pondered with significant seriousness. It is that, in spite of my feminist predisposition (and I am not convinced men can be feminists), I still want to treat the person I love as a queen of sorts? And does that desire put that person on a pedestal? As I once told my parishioners when I was a pastor, “Please do not put me on a pedestal because the only thing I can do is fall off.” Am I setting them and myself up for failure? Where is the reasonable limit of treating them as the most significant thing in your life, and yet giving them the ability to be themselves? What allows them to feel valued without being controlled or smothered? I think I understand that so much differently than when I was in my 20s or maybe even in my late 30s. Part of that was the insecurity I felt as that younger person. And yet, that some insecurity is still present, perhaps for different reasons, but insecurity is still frightening, demoralizing, and sometimes paralyzing. “Standing away from door . . . fear of a touch . . . and yet, am I merely an innocent man” (Joel, “Innocent Man”)? I am not innocent by any means, but can I go through this again sometime? What are the consequences of making such a change? Resurrection of one’s heart is profound. The heart is both the strongest and most fragile piece of the human organism. Many times when someone has slipped from the conscious world, their heart continues to beat, keeping them biologically alive. One the other hand, I remember the story of two people, married for over 70 years who died within 12 hours of the other. Many said, the second died of a broken heart. I believe this is true. We need something to hold on to . . . when your heart has been given to another, it offers possibilities that cannot exist when one is alone. Each heart has, and needs, a sanctuary, again the words of Billy Joel. Sanctuary is an incredible word, an incredible concept. We need that safe haven for more than our heart, particularly when the world around us seems so uninhabitable. Etymologically, sanctuary is related to the place that is holy, a place of sanctification. It is a place of refuge and protection, and it is simultaneously the most sacred aspect of where and what we are. Perhaps that is why our heart is both strong and fragile in the same moment. It is the profound hurt that envelops the heart when the person to whom we “have given” our heart which creates such extreme responses.

What I realize at this point in my life is too often I protected my heart when it should have been available, and yet there were times I left it incredibly unprotected when I should have known better. And so it goes . . . it is stunning to me when I reflect on my life and think about various people I found attractive or interesting and how many times I have failed to do anything. It is perplexing when I ponder the reasons for my choices, my lack of action, and the foolishness or stupidity I exhibited. Perhaps the past two decades have served me well. What has occurred is a sense of introspection and honesty with myself that I could not have managed or faced earlier in my life. As I observe those around me, examining the things I see and hear daily, what I believe the most important thing I see is how selfish we can be when we feel the need to protect our heart. Too often we think we need to self-preserve at all costs. Too often we are convinced it is entirely the fault of the other. Too many times, our emotions and fears close us off, believing there are no other options. And so it goes.

One of the reasons I appreciate Billy Joel, and I remember the first time I heard the song, “Piano Man” in a bar jukebox in Waikiki as an 18 year old, is he has such a breadth of topics in his music. From the bad boy to the introspective crooner, from the historian to the rock n’ roller, he seems to understand our humanity and our heart.

Thanks for reading as always,

Michael

The Gift: Writing and Feeling

Good afternoon,

It’s a typical middle to late Pennsylvania fall day; the morning revealed a variety of window scrapping options, depending on altitude of your location. It’s amazing how a few hundred feet, or even less, affects what kind of precipitation occurs. I remember living in Laurium , MI, 11 miles north of Houghton, which only has an elevation difference of 594 feet. And yet Laurium would get 30 to 40 more inches of snow a year. I remember the first year I was in graduate school at Michigan Tech, we had a winter snowfall of 370+ inches; I think it was the second highest seasonal total and the most in some time. The average is somewhere in the mid-200s of inches annually. You learn to appreciate snow in a way I could have never imagined.

For those who know me, I am a creature of habit, and I need to have a space that creates a sense of comfort and safety to feel hopeful. I think the most difficult aspect of this first year of retirement is a lack of place, space, or consistency. All three things have created a great deal of difficulty. Even now as I am back in Bloomsburg, and it appears I will be here for a bit, it has been perplexing for me. Let me begin, however, with the reality of feeling grateful. First, I am grateful to Andrés because he has taken me in as a guest and been beyond gracious. Second, I need to give some significant thanks to Matt and Roxana as they have allowed me to stay as a guest in the hotel, as it is ultimately their building. So, I am continually aware of how fortunate I am for all of this. Part of feeling displaced to some degree is I still have things in Iowa (most of my personal effects are in Mallard, and the bug is in the Quad Cities), and most of the bus building materials are in Tennessee in storage at the moment. They need to get back to Pennsylvania, and then there is the weather and the reality of winter. I believe there are two things that need to occur if I am going to create some degree of comfort and safety. As mundane as it seems on one level, having a space that I can call my own is central to what I need. Second, having the great majority of my stuff in one place is another element to that stability. There has been some question of whether or not I would even stay in Bloomsburg, which is currently the plan, versus another Pennsylvania town. What the last few months have demonstrated beyond anything imagined is the way hindsight shows how many things I would do differently (and there are a ton of things, some small and even a couple of major things).

In a conversation earlier today with a new acquaintance, and someone for whom I have some very positive thoughts, we talked about why I write. It is something I have reflected upon for a multitude of reasons. Writing is something that is integral to who I am; how I spend a significant amount of time. Writing is how I communicate thoughts, but on a personal level it is how I make sense of my feelings. Feelings are an interesting thing. You can discuss and debate thoughts, but the same is not true about feelings. And yet feelings are not unique to us as human beings. There are many animals that have emotion. The basic emotions of anger, fear, or joy are, once again, not unique to the human condition, but what is perhaps distinctive is the incredible complexity or the interconnectedness between emotion and thought. For me the communication of thought, as noted what occurs in my writing becomes intrinsically connected to the feelings, the emotions. And that interplay, if you will, between the cognitive, the language or words, has developed an awareness of that connectivity that makes it all function rather effectively for me. It requires both critical thought and analysis, something I regularly asserted my students needed to do, and through those two things, I begin to both understand and make sense of the emotional responses that are occurring within me. For much of my earlier life, I was afraid of my emotions, afraid of coming face-to-face with my own limitations. On the other hand, emotions are the basis of our creativity as well as providing the foundation needed to establish meaning to our existence.

It is in meaning that we find our ability to exist from day to day, to manage our social interaction from person to person. Coming to terms with the connection between language and emotion, we develop the ability to empathize because we can see more clearly how our lives are established within a larger context. In our realization of how the individual and the collective function, the uniqueness of our own unrepeatable life becomes apparent. Too often emotions might seem to be burdensome, but in reality, they protect us. It is our emotional response that allows for a rather immediate response, particularly when the circumstance necessitates it. If we were to depend on a rational, analytical, response, in a dangerous situation before we could calculate what is needed, the consequence is long past.

One of the things I often heard from my students is how reading and writing takes too much time; it is too laborious, too boring, too arduous (seldom did they say arduous, just so you know). Writing was not always a simple task, and even now, in spite of my writing regularly it takes consistent effort. There is nothing that simply pours out of my fingers onto the screen. Certainly it is easier than that senior in an honors English class who struggled to get something on the page. I would like to believe it is more worthy than when my seminary professor wrote on my semester paper that he hoped I learned more than was exhibited by my paper (that was a definite ouch moment). It is definitely less of a task than that new pastor who labored over every word before his Sunday sermon was ready for public presentation. And yes, even when I had only 24 hours of sleep over eleven days that August summer when I was trying to finish my dissertation, I believe writing now is much more a privilege than a task. Perhaps it is that evolution that has allowed, created, fostered my ability to connect thought (analysis) to feeling, thereby establishing my desire to share my humanity, my vulnerability, my life in this way. I assert in my title it is a gift.

I believe that to be true because it has helped me come to terms with many of my life experiences, regardless their consequence. It has compelled me to consider the reality of how the beginning of my life has affected everything. It has offered an opportunity to reflect upon my place in the world, consider my travels, experiences, and imagine what dreams and hopes I still have. At this point, I have posted over 500 times since February of 2013; I have had more than 70,000 views, which stuns me. The comments offered by so many people are also humbling and kind, offering a sense that what I have written matters to others. There is little more I could ever ask. I believe everyone who writes hopes that the words might resonate, might offer some insight or sense of community for their reader.

What will your verse be? Thank you as always for reading.

Michael

Measured in Love

Good Sunday late morning/early afternoon,

One of the most difficult things in life is being able to love another person, consistently, persistently, and certainly completely. I am not sure I realized early in life that it would be so difficult, but at this point, as someone retired as well as someone single for a significant amount of time, I have had some time to do some rather deep introspection, and I wonder if I was ever capable of profoundly, unconditionally (at least to the best of my ability) love another person who was not a relative. I wonder if at this point, as someone hopefully wiser, more fair and perhaps kinder, might I even be willing to entertain such a possibility? Loving another person requires incredible sacrifice. I remember after my divorce my father, whose advice or reflection was always profoundly sage, stated, “The people you love the most will always hurt you the worst.” He followed, “Not because they intend to, but because that is how it is.” What he was noting was the reality of how vulnerable we are when we love someone.

If I think carefully and examine life honestly, thoroughly, I am not sure I have ever loved someone unconditionally, and to realize that as someone twice married, that is a difficult and sad admission. Was I merely a failure? The struggle to love completely, to give without condition, was (and is) a struggle because I have perhaps only one example of that sort of love, and it was from a grandparent. I did not see it exhibited in any marital relationship that I witnessed deeply enough, often enough, to know if that is what was occurring. I think there might have been a couple of those incredible relationships in the church I attended, but that is conjecture. Again, I do not want to disparage the people I did know, and certainly gender roles and expectations were different in the 1960s-70s, but I find it disturbing if couples stayed together merely because they were supposed to, and what occurred was merely occupying or existing in a space together.

Loving (or believing I loved) someone is a tremendously hopeful emotion. Somewhat like your first crush, the intensity of that is life-altering. But how does one move from infatuation to loving someone? One of my rather “mantra-style” lines in a marital service is the need for love to grow and mature beyond the wedding day idealism. And such an admonishment is reasonable and fair, but how does it occur? Another thing I realize at this point, is the opposite of loving someone is not hating them; it is not caring about them at all – it is complete indifference. It is the ability to have no real emotion toward someone. As terrible as that might sound, I know of this position with more than one person, a person, who at one point held an important place in my life. Is that unfair or is it self-preservation as life evolved? Perhaps both. Returning to the opening sentence of the paragraph, perhaps it occurs when all hope for any reasonable response, caring response, is lost.

So is love necessary for a healthy outlook on life? If so, what does that love look like? How is it practiced (and like anything desirable, I think it takes practice)? Are there people outside family I love at this point? I believe they do exist, and that is a good thing. What I have been compelled to realize is love is something so profound that I am not sure I can describe it. There are moments I have to ask if I am, perhaps, infatuated with the idea of being in love, that romantic, hopeful, happily/ever-after, care for the other that makes them the queen!? Does it sound like unparalleled idealism? Indeed, it does. Is it because I want a fairytale or somehow I need it? That is a difficult question.

Can love be measured, returning to my title? Should it be measured? To ask if there are people in my life worthy of love (that implies measurement or conditionality, which is a problem) would be a question that is fraught with problems, but nonetheless, I am hoping to pose it. Because I should? No, but it is because I think too often it is how we quantify the emotion. What I am pushed to consider is can we love the other regardless their lovableness? Can we become the love we are Biblically commanded to be? The very statement or grammatical reality of the “to be” is intrinsically related to the Biblical response of Yahweh to Moses in the burning bush “I am.” What he it implies is love it not simply an emotion; it is an essence. It is who we are. It is who we are to be. Therein lies the unconditionality of it. It is summarily who we are called to be, perhaps expected to be by others. Can that be true? And yet, it is difficult because we have few if any examples. Perhaps a Mother Theresa, a Saint Francis? And yet even they are only what or who I have been told. How do I live a life that is measured in love?

Much like the incredible song from the Rent, soundtrack, it is in the moments, the minutes, and a collection of them. As I ponder, it is about an honesty and unselfishness that goes beyond what people expect. It is in a vulnerability, and yet, a reality of understanding that we live in a dishonest and selfish world. Again, it is at this precise instance we come face-to-face with the rub, the difficulty. To unconditionally love is to demand, require, or expect nothing in return. There is no measuring; there is only doing. It is the ultimate vulnerability. Are we capable of such a taking such a chance? It the practice different when it is an intimate relationship versus one that has no physical element? Somehow, I believe, for me, the lack of physicality makes it more likely. That, again, is a rather strange realization. The two people I feel most confident that I can say I love, I have not been romantically involved with. They have been in my life for a significant time, on from childhood and the other for half their life. There is a third, and they are the first person I loved as an adult, albeit a very immature young man, and someone who still today teaches me about love. It begs the question, what is the difference between unconditional love and being deeply in love with someone? Is being in love with them something involuntary? Something beyond our control? While certainly emotional, is it a decision or does it just happen? Again, my father said, “When you meet the right one, you can do nothing about it. It is.” Again, a grammatical relative to I am. Loving someone or living a life that radiates love is something different. It is what I wish to do; how I want to live the remainder of my life. But how? Is it giving without expectation? Is it trying in a Biblical way turning the other cheek, giving the other your cloak, tying their sandal? Is unconditional love the reality of being altruistic? Seems worth pondering. What I struggle to determine is can I desire a certain degree of solitude and still base my actions in love? On one hand the answer seems to be a simple, of course. On the other, can I be loving as well as decidedly separate, or involved with unconditional care and be removed simultaneously? How might it all be measured? Seems I have no answer, but lots of questions.

Thank you for reading.

Michael

Seasons and Siblings

Me at 16

Hello from a low-key Friday afternoon

The metaphor of seasons is well-known, and its use across the genres of art is extensive. Immediately, Vivaldi’s classic Four Seasons, comes to mind, or another Italian, artist, Giuseppe Arcimbold painted four paintings on the seasons given to HRE Maximillian II. Scottish poet, James Thomson composed poems on tue seasons in the early mid-1700s. Perhaps our interest in these Trimonthly transformations is both sense of familiarity and the comfort of predictability. I know that mid-September into early October is my most comforting time of year. The cool nights and crisp mornings, the sun-kissed warm afternoons and the beauty and crunch of the leaves gives me a sense of comfort and hope like nothing else, save perhaps the season of Advent, which of course is liturgical. My significant appreciation for that particular liturgical season was first realized when I was in Germany during the month of December in 1985. I think my love is because of the kindness and generosity of Christmas, a combination of childhood memories and the reality of what the preparatory season of advent does to focus us.

Certainly there is more to say about seasons, but I would also like to address the idea of siblings. Growing up, I was the middle of three children in the adopted family. In my biological family, something I have not been part of since before I was two, my parents would have three children, another girl after my sister and me. To this day, I know her name when she was born, but I do not have an exact birthdate. I was the eldest in that biological family, and after my parent’s divorce and subsequent remarriages, their would be three more children to each of them. So that means I have 6 half brothers and sisters. I have not met all of them, and there has been a significant number of them who have passed on. If you are keeping track, that is a total of 10 siblings of various degrees of relationship. Of the 10 half of them are no longer alive. It is a strange thing to consider, but I have lived the longest of any, and I was the not the first born as well as certainly not the last. My thoughts about siblings is because today would be the birthday of my younger, and closest sibling, Kris (also known as Kristy growing up). We were 14 months apart, and when I see a picture of her in her early thirties, me in my high school graduation and the only picture of I have of our mother (in her teens), you can certainly see the resemblance. It was a year ago today, I had arrived back in Iowa, having left Bloomsburg after 15 years. Today, I am back in Bloomsburg for the time being, but spent some significant time in Iowa during the past year, including visits back to Sioux City. During my time there, I had the opportunity to meet or chat with Kris’s two closest school friends. It was quite wonderful to spend time with them and hear their memories of her. Kris was an incredibly kind and terrifically intelligent person. She was passionate about and loyal to her friends. When I think of how I understand her, I think she was intensely private, but needed to be so for a number of reasons, from her desire to protect herself from our mother’s abuse, and she was the one who endured it most often, to what I know believe was her struggle to figure out who she was. She was also the one of the two of us who was intent on reconnecting with our biological parents. She and I had very different needs in that way. What I remember most vividly was her intense desire to care for the other, her deep care for animals, and how proud she was that she became a mother. I still remember clearly the morning she called me to tell me she was pregnant. Her daughter just turned 30.

Kris passed away at 51 from a heart attack, though it was not her first one. She also had other significant contributors to her dying so early. She was her own person, and no one nor any external factor would change her mind. And yet she had a deep-seated need (as do all humans) to be loved. I am not sure she ever felt loved in a consistent manner, with perhaps, the exception being her daughter. Over the years, as we were no longer in the same town nor often even in the same state, I believe we learned to love and appreciate each other in ways we did not as children or teens. I have noted in other posts how close she was to our older brother, who was not biologically related at all. I think his early death probably caused her to feel like whatever anchor she might have felt was lost. As we aged and went down our own paths, I think our mutual admiration and respect for the other grew. I remember she would always introduce me with whatever title I had earned at the time, and it was something she said with profound pride. I am still grateful to her for that. I think she would be outraged at many of the things that are currently happening in our world because her sense of social justice was deeply engrained in the person she was.

It brings me back to the concept and understanding of seasons. How many seasons will we experience? There are no promises, and in spite of our best laid plans there is little that we can do to plan beyond the next corner we will encounter. I was 21 before I realized that as more than a conceptual understanding. That was when Bob, the older brother referred to above, passed away 35 days after being injured in a construction accident. He was an electrician like my father, the husband of Carolyn, for whom I still have incredible adoration and appreciation, and three children, again with whom I am still an uncle. He was only 26 years old. Later that same year, my grandmother, again my hero, would pass unexpectedly at 64. In both cases, the seasons they had were not nearly as many as any would have predicted. What is consider the be the spring of someone’s life, their summer, fall or winter? Is it an age or experience? Is it primarily related to health? These are all things I ponder as I write and I struggle with the concept of retirement and identity. As I believe I am certainly in the Autumn of my life, how will I know when Fall turns into Winter, or do you? And is winter something to avoid? I am not sure I feel that it is. It is a progression and realizing and accepting that progression allows for someone to see the beauty of each season. I wonder when I transformed from Summer to Autumn? That is something I need to try to determine (or do I?). I think my figuring out my seasons might give me some sense of both accomplishment as well as planning or imagining what is to come. I think how we respond to others because of our sense of seasons is something to consider. I Know recently, my willingness, and hence my ability, to entertain the drama of another has all but disappeared. Am I being selfish or rude? It is certainly outside of what has been the more likely response in those earlier seasons.

Outside, the Fall is fleeting; most of the trees are bare and the wind has a bite that is a harbinger of what is soon to be characteristic of our daily life here in NorthCentral Pennsylvania. Understanding the change and anticipating the consequence is life, and life, as this very writing reminds me, is unpredictable and sacred. Kris, I realize more and more how much I regret the distance that typified most of our life, be it geographically or behaviorally. I know your daughter is much like you, creating her own path, standing up against odds, and yet loving and creative. She has an incredible beauty to her as you did. I know she still admires, loves, and misses you. Each minute as this amazing piece from the musical, Rent, reminds us is precious, and there are no promises. Happy Birthday, younger sister. I love you.

Thank you for reading,

Michael

At 250 . . . Once, Always

Hello from the corner table,

Currently, there are a lot of words tossed around (which is not really anything new, but perhaps different ones) that get used, pushed upon the other, and taken out of context. Or sometimes, thinking about the work of Anthony Giddens, the British social theorist, they take on new meanings. Perhaps it is when they have the new meanings, something that seems in no way related to what has occurred before, that we probably struggle the most. I remember when I first heard the word “jawn,” which seems to have originated in Philadelphia, not all that far from where I have spent more than a decade and a half of my life. In fact, there is a billboard type advertisement for it in the Philadelphia International Airport. If you are not aware of it, a quick search will acquaint you, but it is a sort of ultimate po-mo sort of word, and it can refer to a person place or thing (sounds like the definition of a noun) or even an event. So it means both everything and nothing. I remember when it was a bit more in vogue on our Bloomsburg campus and seldom did I hear a conversation where it did not find its way into that exchange. Often when people had some sense of excitement about whatever it was, jawn would be used to describe it, to refer to it.

Ponder for a moment words that were used in our daily language when you were in high school or college. And I wonder if the ability to communicate so instantaneously has only caused the proliferation of such colloquialisms to explode as well as travel from culture to culture. I am sure that is the case. Some of those words from the 60s are known to most Millennials, Gen Z or now Alpha as hippie speak . . . Even though I never considered myself a hippie, when some of my students see me in the 70s and 80s, they say I was a hippie. For me a hippie was more of the flower child in Haight-Ashbury. I did not think of NW Iowa as a hippie haven, that is for sure. Of course, teaching at a university most of my adult life, or working with youth when I was a pastor, I was exposed to their vernacular on a daily basis. As always, language, the use of words, intrigues me.

This coming Monday, the 10th of November (as is every 10th of November), there are three things that occurred in history that have significance in my life. The first is the birthday of Martin Luther in 1483, and as a Lutheran pastor that always held significance for me. Recently I posted a meme of him, and noted that if there is a person in history I would like to meet, he might be at the top of the list, most definitely closely followed by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who also affected me, both because of my dissertation work as well as how he perceived the role of the church in society. The second of the events, and this is out of chronological order, but for a reason, is the loss of the taconite freighter, SS Edmund Fitzgerald, on the 10th in 1975, so this year marks 50 years since that fateful journey across Superior (Gitche Gumee). My feeds have been awash with news items, about the famous tune by the late Gordon Lightfoot, and the still remaining questions about what actually caused it to sink. The ship was large enough and considered sturdy enough that it was been referred to as the “Titanic of the Great Lakes.” My spending the better part of a decade in Houghton in the Keweenaw, and in the middle of Lake Superior makes that even part of the culture. Additionally, I worked at a restaurant called Fitzgeralds, which is in Eagle River, Michigan, and I would encourage you to dine there if you are in the area.

The third important event that occurred on this date occurred in Philadelphia at Tun Tavern, which had been around for almost a century, when it became where the first recruiting drive for the United States Marine Corps occurred in 1775. The tavern and the date have been the traditional founding of the USMC. The significance of the Marine Corps as a branch of the military and the espirit de corps of the Marines is really second to none in the country. The phrase “Once a Marine, Always a Marine” does not (to my knowledge) have an equal in the other branches of our military. To be called brother (or sister, I imagine) by another Marine Corps veteran will send chills throughout my body. The rigorous nature of Marine Corps Boot Camp is legendary, and that was certainly even more instilled in the acting of the late (actual Staff Sgt. and Drill Instructor) R. Lee Ermey in Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket. Nominated for an Academy Award as Best Supporting Actor, he portrayed both the reality and the difficulty of the task required to turn boys into disciplined Marines in merely 80 days. I remember when I told my father I wanted to go into the service, and his response was “That might be good for you.” When I followed up that I wanted to enlist in the Marines, his response changed. He said, “What the hell do you want to do that for?” And while I had some understanding of what that meant (not nearly enough), I responded, “Because I am little and no one things I can do it.” Again, in the spirit of full disclosure, the first two nights of boot camp, I put my head under my pillow, and I cried. I was terrified at what I had done, but my father had warned me that once I was there, I WAS THERE!! He was correct. While my time in the Marines was quite a growing experience, I think it is in the 50+ years since that I realize the profound significance of what being a Marine did and does. For it is true, I will live the motto of Semper Fidelis until my last breath. There is a loyalty to that oath I took as a young naïve 17 year old who had no real inkling about what he had just swore to do. It was in the Spring of 1973, and we were withdrawing from Vietnam. I saw the Marines as a way to leave home and get a GI Bill.

So in the 50 years since, and particularly during the time I served as the advisor to the Bloomsburg University Student Veterans Association, I really came face-to-face and grew exponentially in my appreciation for what my time as a Marine in the 1970s meant. Even when I was in Wisconsin, I remember having a group of National Guard students who were called out in the middle of the semester to be deployed. The number of amazing men and women that I worked with during my time here at Bloomsburg across the branches of the military, from those in ROTC, and I think of fraternity brothers in Michigan who served (some losing their lives). Each of those people humble me and remind me of what our country is really built on. When I see the table set for the person still MIA, the ability to hold back tears is not always something of which I am capable. Even as I was writing this, Bloomsburg was holding its annual Veterans Day parade. The number of Deuce-and-a-halfs, Five-Tons, or a jeep with a trailer (something I once rolled at the Main Gate of Camp LeJuene) reminded me of what it was to be in the Marine Corps and a 105 or 155 Howitzer Battery. When I began this post, I spoke about language, and the importance of words. The word that comes to mind when I think of being a Marine, what it means to still be a Marine is loyalty. Semper Fidelis, the motto was instituted by the 8th Commandant of the Marine Corps, Colonel Charles McCawley. It points to the loyalty that instilled in every Marine from the day they step foot on those yellow footprints in Parris Island or San Diego and yes, in Quantico. Loyalty becomes the fabric of each individual who becomes a Marine, and that loyalty to God and Country, to the Corps is unquestioned. Country is certainly an object, and for those who believe in a Creator, God is a person. And yet what is loyalty? What makes it such a powerful thing? Why is it we often describe loyalty by a negative (e.g. not being betrayed, not being cheated on, or not being abandoned – there is that word for me again)? It is because it is so hard to describe or quantify? What if we were to say it is about consistency; it is about honest vulnerability; and perhaps it is about some level of transparency. This is, of course, more about interpersonal relationships, but what does it mean for being a Marine?

It is about tradition and honor, believing in the core principles of the Corps. It is about a sense of purpose to something larger than one’s self. It is about brotherhood and camaraderie. There are few if any Marine who does not know what they felt like upon graduating from Boot Camp. It is about learning and developing leadership and using that leadership for the good of the other Marines with whom you serve. But I believe that what makes that loyalty different is it extends beyond someone’s EAS. It is something they believe in as essential to who they are. This is not to say Marines are infallible. I know this all too well, but recently someone asked me what I carry with me yet today from being a United States Marine? What I carry is a sense of honor and duty to my country, which means at time questioning its path. What I carry with me is a sense of discipline that when needed, I know how to dig deep and get something accomplished. What I carry with me is a sense of pride in completing the task, the mission, whatever the duty is to the best of my ability. Am I a proud Marine? Indeed, I am. Am I a loyal Marine? Again, indeed, I am. Have I ever regretted going against my father’s advice when I enlisted in the Corps? Not a single instance – no, not one time. Were there things that happened during my service that changed me? Undoubtedly, and I remember some of them vividly. Now as the Corps celebrates 250 years of service to the country, I am proud to say as a Corps, as a veteran Marine, I hold fast to the belief of always faithful. To all my brother and sister Marines: Semper Fi! Once, always!

This video of the Marine Corps Hymn is done by the Commandant’s Own, which is at Marine Barracks in Washington, DC, and was recorded a few years ago. I would not the official Marine Corp’s Band is also called “The President’s Own.”

Thanks as always for reading,

Michael

Struggling with my Scars

Hello from the hotel,

I am continually amazed by the way our lives seem to be in an ending tension of sorts, the sort of push and pull between things that seem diametrically opposed. We are, on occasion, profoundly short-sighted while simultaneously planning things long-term. We are ostensibly pleased with our daily existence while worrying about where we are as well as where we are going or what might happen. We claim resilience all the time being much more fragile than we realize or care to admit. All of these tenuous elements of life have seemed to be my daily companions of late. I am a planner, and I regularly tell people that I am capable of flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, but it is never my preference. I believed I had thought about retirement carefully and that I had managed all the elements of that drastic change in my life adequately. At this point, I am certainly not feeling that way. The past year has taught me there was a lot more to this than I anticipated, and now I am feeling scattered, under-prepared, and less squared away than I imagined. Insecurity is a powerful thing, and it takes any sense of control and throws it to the winds. Being in control of my life is something that I have worked hard to manage, particularly after coming to Bloomsburg, but currently, I find myself rethinking almost everything.

The importance of safety is something that has found its way into my blog posts from time to time, questioning what it means to feel safe, and certainly to realize when that has occurred in my life. There are more than enough things happening daily in our world that feeling safe might be a more and more fleeting possibility. From food insecurity to wondering if you can fly, from receiving a paycheck to wondering what might happen on our streets, in our churches, or on the oceans, the reasons to have concern are certainly rampant. This past summer when I was in Europe, friends, quasi-family, and former students all asked me what was happening in America. While to some extent, it matters not what I said, it is important that they felt the need to ask. What they imply by their very questions is that what they are seeing, reading, hearing, and pondering is an America that is not what they grew up understanding. Likewise, what is noted in that question is a global safety question.

What provides one with a sense of safety? What are the basic items, qualities, or ideas that are necessary for someone to feel safe? It is a fair question. What made me feel safe as a small child at my grandparents’ home? What I imagine was some sense of predictability. Even though I was less than two when my sister and I came to live with them, what we were told was the difference that happened in our daily lives from the time we had with our biological parents. What else I imagine, knowing what I know now was the incredible love my sister and I received from our grandparents. Predictability has a byproduct of safety of continuity, allowing someone to merely move from thing to thing, from day to day. What I had was a predictability and the belief that I was safe from harm. Safety has two components for us as we age. It is what we are experiencing in the moment, but it is always connected to what we have experienced in the past. The Cuban-born, American philosopher, Ernest Sosa, considered what is called the safety principle an anti-luck principle attempting to address the epistemological idea of JTB (justification, truth, belief- and perhaps an apropos consideration as the anniversary of Martin Luther’s birth is next week), which is also known as the Gettier Problem. I must admit that I was not aware of this struggle until I did some searching, but it still pushes me to consider what is safety and how it relates to knowledge.

As I ponder my own struggles with feeling safe or maintaining that feeling, I cannot get beyond how past experience affects my response in situations where I am feeling uncomfortable (e.g. unsafe). Those feelings in a particularly circumstance or because of what has occurred in the past, and how my feelings about those experiences can quickly bubble to the surface when something that is even tangentially related occurs. The scars of our childhood, of our past relationships, or of events that were difficult to manage can heal, and even seem invisible, but when something that harkens back to that experience and those emotions, it is like the scar has been re-wounded; the pain, the fear, and inability to manage can re-establish itself in a moment, and when it is unexpected, the intensity is exponentially higher. When I think of the scars, the events that have most affected who I am or how I respond, there are a couple of things that rise to the top quickly. Again, I do not believe anyone who has been reading my work for a while will be surprised. First, it is feeling as if I do not belong and as if I have no value. That can come from what another does, which is actually more manageable, and then it comes from inside of me. Connected to belonging or having value relates to our internal sense of worth. That thing that often gives us a sense of purpose. The continual voice I struggle to overcome, regardless how well I have done, is that voice that I heard regularly, telling me I did not deserve to be in someone’s house, that I would not amount to anything. As I am struggling to find my place at the moment, and as I feel more vulnerable on multiple levels than I have for some time, I am feeling the scar and pain of those words as I feel I have ended up there at this point so many years later. It is disconcerting; it was unexpected; and it is frightening. That is the honest truth to my vulnerability at this moment. Second, and sometimes, I wonder if this is karma for earlier transgressions, when I am accused or blamed for something that I either did not do, nor I had no power over, it destroys me. That is a strong statement, but it does. It tears into my soul in a way that I cannot describe. And again, maybe that is because I have not dealt adequately with some of those failures in my earlier life.

Trusting in another person, believing I would not be rejected or discarded has always been a profound struggle for me, and something with extreme consequence. I believe it is a central reason that my marriages failed. It caused me to believe I was not good enough, believing that any sense of disapproval or disagreement would lead to abandonment. The fear of abandonment, of rejection caused the little boy in me to bubble to the surface, and my responses both physically and emotionally were problematic. I cannot blame my former spouses on some levels for their struggle with me. My inability to manage my fear undermined my relationships in more than one way that is for sure. That is both painful and long overdue. That is not to say there were no actions or behaviors on the other side of the equation, but I need to take accountability for my part of their failures. Additionally believing that I might go back and change any of that is abject foolishness. While I am not a psychologist, and not well-versed in childhood trauma, a quick search does demonstrate that childhood maltreatment has long time, often life-changing consequences. What makes it more difficult is the scars are generally not something that has a physical manifestation. That makes it more difficult because on the surface someone can appear unharmed, a person with no deep-seated fears or pains. The feeling victimized by the past is not something I have ever wished to do, and yet studies show that it is both only normal, but there is a propensity for revictimization. That is a very troubling thing. It makes me feel like I am in the Sisyphus-tic circle. If we succumb to this, we believe we have no power. I am unwilling to do that. The only power, the only agency, we hold is what we decide to do. While I am feeling more vulnerable than I have for a very long time, conversations today (totally unrelated to this blog) have reminded me of the other things that matter. Certainly, the past year has been disorienting in multiple ways (and not only in a sense of vertigo, which has also been an issue), but the scars that do not always appear visible has been scratched or bumped, causing pain and struggle once again. While there are things that need to be managed as always, I have no power other than my own choices. And yet the reminder they are there is not a bad thing. Perhaps in admitting them once again, I have more control over them.

Thanks as always for reading.

Michael

Understanding Life

Hello on another day of significance,

It’s an Election Day and as always the attempted reading of the tea leaves is on full boil. Additionally, there is an irony that the early morning news feeds all raced to be the first to report the passing of former Vice President/Secretary of Defense/White House Chief of Staff Richard (Dick) Cheney. He reshaped the role of Vice President, and some will argue started the country on the path of pushing executive power. He also showed incredible principle to speak out about his feelings on January 6th as well as cast his last presidential vote for Kamala Harris. The stark reality is that life continues and the equalizer for all of us is that life stops. What I find myself doing more and more frequently when someone notable passes away (e.g. a musician in a band I grew up on; an movie person whose movies touched me; or someone who wielded power in our world) is comparing our difference in years. Perhaps 14 years seemed like a lot once upon a time (the difference between Dick Cheney‘s age, at his death, and my current age), but not as not the case now. What I find interesting is that we don’t really always know the age of those born before us who have become influential in whatever area of life it is. Additionally, as we are living longer, pointing out someone’s age, particularly in the area politics, seems to be more and more likely, as well as more and more significant.

There are certainly those persons who say age is nothing more than a number. And that is certainly the case; it is a number. But to say that no numbers are significant is a bit naïve. I remember 16 and its importance to be able to drive. And of course I am old enough that 18 meant I was an adult. Free young people today, the number is 21. And then the course, there is the number 30 or the number 40. Terms like biological clocks, or phrases like over-the-hill, get attached to those numbers. Attempts to reverse our understanding of aging with phrases like 50 is the new 30 or whatever else is said, hoping to somehow make us feel relevant is tossed around as another number is added to our chronological clock. Personally, neither 60 or 65 really phased me, but I’m not sure the same will be said for me about 70.

Is there a particular age the pushes someone to seriously consider their mortality? I doubt that is the case. For me, and I do think I am somewhat typical, I don’t know that I have ever considered how long I will live in terms of a number. Because of a lifelong battle to maintain health, and more than once being told, I had hours, weeks or months to live, I pondered more about what I would still do rather than what age I had attained. I remember realizing that I had lived longer than the grandmother I recently wrote about. I remember when I was older than my adopted mother when she passed. In each instance, I don’t believe there was a sense of accomplishment, and certainly no morbidity, but rather a realization of mortality. on the other hand, when both of them passed away, I was in my early 20s and mid 30s. While certainly an adult, I still believed I had most of my life in front of me. When my grandmother passed, I had not yet been diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. When my mother passed, that diagnosis was still quite recent. The irony of life . . . As I am writing this, I got a notice that the wife of the pastor I served with has passed away. Another moment of irony that I am writing on this topic and received the notice from my former church secretary. I remember when I arrived in Lehighton the fall of 1988. I did not realize that Guy and Norma had been high school sweethearts and in reading the obituary today, they were married 67 years. That is a profound testament to understanding life and love.

What makes one’s life memorable? And then perhaps one asks to whom? What are the objective aspects of life? How do those aspects affect longevity? Studies back to the mid-20th century show that the objectivity of life has less to do with our sense of meaning than do the subjective aspects, which more regularly affect both behavior and social interaction (Berger and Pullman, 1965). Having some feeling of importance or a need to keep ourselves involved with others has a profound effect on how we manage life. In fact one specific study focused on a life of meaning and its connection to mortality. There was a direct correlation between having a life of consequence and staving off our eventual mortality. What makes one’s life something of consequence? Most generally it is our interpersonal relationships or our interactions with events or tasks that provide a sense of worth. When our lives go through a significant change, I am realizing that the need to find something of value to do is imperative. And that for me is more than merely keeping busy. it is more than some achievement, and it is more than simply having another person. For me it is pondering and writing, making my brain work. Questioning the why of something is important to me. It is what gives me purpose, or so it seems. I struggle when people are willing to merely wander along much like the feather blowing in the wind at the beginning and end of Forrest Gump. Certainly, there are moments to allow for such a possibility. The memory of my CPE supervisor telling me that I lacked a sense of humor or that I was too serious just came to mind. While I am not sure I accurately recall how he framed it, I remember being shocked at his assessment. Now 40 years later, I think he was probably more correct than I was willingly to accept in that moment. There is a seriousness that I seldom seem to shake. Even as I prepare for an event, someone whose opinion I value told me I was too serious, too scholarly, as a did something. Again, I was taken back, and even a bit hurt. How do I allow myself to have fun? Do I even know how? That is an incredible question to ask myself at this point. What provides a sense of enjoyment for me? Do I know? Again is there a seriousness in my figuring out fun? Another absurdity of sorts. Is something being enjoyable fun? Does doing something enjoyable mean I having fun? What does it mean to have fun? When do I last remember having fun? Oh my goodness! What have I discovered or realized? What might I do? What gives life a sense of both importance and enjoyment? Do I know? Hmmmm

Thanks for reading, as always.

Michael

When Kindness is Dismissed

Hello on an mid-November evening,

While my salutation is somewhat non-committal, and I am a generally optimistic person, the daily rejection of kindness or simple goodness in the world, the country, and even within my own minute corner of Bloomsburg of has me rethinking life on a fundamental basis. From basic manners or expressing care for the other, manners are non-existent, and the belief that a simple “my-bad” suffices is ludicrous. Additionally, the meeting of any kindness with suspicion that it cannot be done simply out of pure goodness says more than I have room to write about our current world. Depending on the issue, there is always a sense of how might I manage it, but I am feeling more powerless presently than I generally do, and that frightens and dismays me. I am well aware of what degree of actual power I have in most situations (e.g. minuscule). Additionally, a regular reality check has been pushed upon me from every direction recently. Lydia used to tell me I am too kind for my own good. She regularly admonished me to not trust people and that I always give people the benefit of the doubt. I can still her her little Austrian accent across the breakfast counter, when I would try to counter her. She would simply respond, “That is BS.” Even Susan, my first wife, warned me of similar things about my youth kids. She regularly said I was too believing of their goodness or basic honesty. She referred regularly to their “me-first” philosophy.

I am quite intuitive and as such my radar is generally alive and well. At the same time I sense things pretty accurately. So between the two, not a lot surprises me. However, my overarching desire to look for the good in people, at times, undermines what my brain seems to realize. The actuality of our selfishness, our self-regard, seems to be the true character of who we are as humans. I am grateful for some supportive conversations, and the willingness of some to take the chance of being honest, in spite of their being worried to share some insight. Conversely, the failure of another, in spite of the significant time spent around me, to speak on my behalf is painful. What the entire situation shows is my intuition, my reading of a couple situations, and some as far back as a few years ago, demonstrate my attempts to be kind and supportive have been both misinterpreted and then miscommunicated. I am feeling more than a bit badly about that, but another lesson learned. Trying to be kind is not always perceived as kindness. This is not a new phenomenon; and yet, sometimes it is evident that I do not learn from past experiences, and, in particular, my willingness, my propensity, to be open and caring. As recently noted, caring about people was something seemingly inherent in my DNA. My Great-aunt noticed it before I was two.

What I have been reminded of clearly is that the very people you might want to believe have caring hearts (are fundamentally good), and I do not be-judge the accomplishments of others, seemed to believe that something done out of the kindness of my heart was an embarrassment; and in spite of my intention, it perhaps offended them. I somehow sensed that since, but such a possibility seemed so unrealistic, so absurd, I discounted it. I remember working carefully to do it appropriately and as honestly as I could. I remember diligently to make sure every single person was thanked. Now it seems I was correct. More amazingly, it was relayed to me that what I was doing was seen as unnecessary (maybe even inadequate). I must add that I have spoken to one of the principle people in the situation, and while there was some loss in what a conversation might have stated, and consequently of intention or desire from both sides. The misunderstanding it seems has gone on since that time, and there was some expression of gratitude, that is helpful. Certainly there is a change in perspective over time, but it does appear that in spite of the good intentions, it was not really appreciated. What is apparent is I, too often, let my kindness, the goodness of my heart, rule my actions. It is because as I often say, I would rather be remembered as too kind than too uncaring. I am pushed to reflect on and ask the question: Am I able to moderate this in a way I do not feel I have betrayed myself? Again, my heart overrules my brain. In the second instance, what I believed to be a good thing to support an event, and what I do regularly in chronicling events has been portrayed inaccurately (and there is an irony that past experience with that individual allowed for that very possibility.). If you would look at my photos of which my phone has more than 14K, the number of photos from my frequenting events is significant. So sharing a photo was not meant to be problematic (and it was not shared publically). I did see a marked change in attitude and behavior. Furthermore, to exacerbate that circumstance, when I specifically did something to make sure there was no chance for a misinterpretation, again, it appears that was told incorrectly to others. Again I find myself questioning perhaps a misperception or more problematically a lie. This last situation does more than frustrate me. It angers me because it raises a question of both intention and character on multiple levels. At this moment, I am unsure how to approach it. There is always the simple let it merely settle. However, there is a question of will that happen? There is confronting it, dealing with it, and getting it squared away, but there is no guarantee that is what will happen. What frustrates me, what creates a significant level of pause is the following reality – generally, there is no real win in this circumstance. And the fact that it is now 4:20 (interesting number), and I am awake and editing this says a lot. I shared this post with a friend and asked their honest opinion. They accurately noted that posting it could create more problems than help, and that is true. Do I protest too loudly or do I feel that profoundly, unfairly, treated? I will sit and ponder.

Group speak is a dangerous thing. Societally, it can create a conversation that results in violence against the people or individuals being targeted. When it is about an individual or specific circumstance, it become easy to add comments that aid in the perception of what is being asserted. Perception is reality or becomes reality for the person or group until proven otherwise. Is it regularly possible to question one’s perception? Yes, of course it is. The more significant question is whether or not the energy required will result in a reasonable ROI? Group speak can easily become group think, which is more dangerous. The need to agree becomes more important than conversation that might question the accuracy of the current conclusions. This can lead to a close mindedness, and impair the ability of those who do not believe things to be accurate. And in the lack of questioning, the silence creates a complicity, an unintentional support of a blasphemous conversation that can profoundly hurt someone.

Sometimes the discrimination that occurs toward males is stunning. I remember even when I was married, a spouse asking why I went to lunch with grad school colleagues. I responded because we were hungry. The next question was “What did you talk about?” To which I answered, “Class.” If there were females, she wanted to know what they looked looked like. If I went to lunch with only males, she even asked if I was gay. I remember being afraid to even say I went to lunch. In the twenty-five years since a divorce, the number of times I have been asked why I did not date is incredible. The number of times I have been questioned about my sexual preference is perhaps more than a hundred. When I opened my home to a gay colleague that sealed the deal in the minds of many. In fact, a woman in town (my age) and someone I found interesting told me her former husband, whom I have only met at social events, told her I was gay. The reality that I can be a single male and be content to remain single seems unimaginable to many. For the record, do I notice attractive people? Indeed, I do. Regardless their age. I actually appreciated aging in the academy because it allowed me a sense of safety. If someone is young enough to be a daughter or granddaughter I can assure you, I more often than not find them annoying. I know that sounds harsh, but I am not interested in what they are. And now I am old enough they could be a great-granddaughter, the distance is more extreme. In fact, when a person I found incredibly attractive and we tried to figure out our relationship visited, they slept in another room (and we are contemporaries). Not because I was not attracted or found them undesirable, but rather because it was the right thing to do. I wish I could say I always maintained that standard in my life. However that would be untruthful. However, here in Pennsylvania, I have had 6 female students (some at the request of their parents and all with the support of their parents) live at my house, 2 male students, and two high school exchange students, and I worked very hard to make sure they were safe and respected. So any conversation that occurs asserting something else is not only unfair, it is categorically wrong. I have worked diligently to be morally appropriate the entire time I have lived in Bloomsburg. I am proud of how I treated students and advisees during my 15 years at the university.

Again, it does take me back to kindness, and the consequence of perception. I remember from time to time being told one cannot be that kind and giving without expecting something in return. Do I expect something in return? Perhaps I do. I expect to be treated with the same kindness and respect I try to give. Again, in spite of a general feeling of disregard for someone who did know me well, I remember them once accurately telling me that my sense of loyalty was not typical, and that I should not expect it of others. While I do not like to admit their wisdom in much, they were spot-on wise in this circumstance. So why do I keep hoping for a different outcome? Is it because I want to believe people can be or do better? Is it because I wish for a world where kindness and some degree of goodness can make us all more gentle and genuine? It is that I somehow purport the “Golden Rule” can actually work? I am not sure what I hope at the moment. I am not sure what I want at the moment. I not sure what really matters at the moment. Perhaps I need to to schedule that talk with my grandmother as I noted in my last blog.

Thank you for reading. Perhaps Vincent was right.

Michael

Grandma, I Miss You

Hello from my little corner,

Sometimes we are called to remember, to give thanks for those things, places, or events, which in some way influence or define the person we’ve become. I think there are definitely those things or events that are quite easy to point to for me. Collectively, health has been a series of events from surgeries to diagnosis, from medical concerns to simply managing a life begun earlier than planned. Things, on the other hand, might seem a bit more nebulous at moments, but nonetheless, the consequences help solidify them. Adoption, a person’s passing, an ordination, a new tenure-track position, each of them necessitated a change that transformed my life trajectory. The importance of, the degree to which, or the aggregate nature over the spans of my life are not always clear to me. Certainly, the opportunities I have had to travel have transmogrified me, my understanding of the world and myself. When people ask me what is my favorite travel experience or where is my most memorable location, there is no simple answer. Undoubtedly, the beauty of the Keweenaw Peninsula, and particularly the drive turning left on 41 to go toward Eagle River and Eagle Harbor and eventually Copper Harbor as beautifully stunning as anywhere. The picture above is on that drive. My worldly travels have been of profound importance and established an understanding of the other, a connection to the other that has grown a sense of awe and empathy that would have never happened without those experiences. While København, Oslo, Prague, Murcia, Moscow, and Budapest are influential, Kraków holds a special place in my heart like no other. And yet when I think about what means more to me than anything, it is not any of these. It is a person. Her name was (is) Louise Ethel (nee Hannestad) Lyman. Officially, she was my paternal grandmother, but she was also my principal parent from before I was two years old until my sister, Kris, and I were adopted by the Martins in May of 1960. She is the first parent I remember.

She was (and is until today) the only person I have completely trusted and believed to love me unconditionally. I have referred (and still do) to her as my hero in life. She was, like all of us, flawed, and struggled with significant demons following the death of her husband and father within 6 months of each other. However, thanks to an elder sister was able to get back on track and live her life. She was dedicated to her work and her grandchildren, and she had an elegance to her that I believed to be simply normal. I know now that it was just another reason she was exceptional. Her kindness and support of her employees and her sense of appropriateness (I think her most vulgar expression might have been damn), her adherence to being polite in all circumstances was unparalleled. I think I would probably disappoint her with my use of vernacular language. I lived with her a second time after that initial time, the summer between my junior and senior of high school, and that time might have been more consequential in spite of the fact it was only three and a half months compared to three and a half years at the beginning of my life.

So what is it that created such trust and admiration for her? First – it was how she gave without exception, and with such willingness. And the love that imbued every action she took still stuns me. Her smile and her gentle manner created a sense of safety I have never felt since. The gentle spirit that permeated 4547 Harrison Street, or how the breakfast she fixed each morning, which is still my comfort food, set a standard for goodness and provided hope I have seldom felt since. As I have noted in other posts, when I decorated my house on The Acre, there were things, not always realized or planned, that recreated some aspect of my preschool home with her. From the sort of country kitchen to the sort of circular pathway that replicated the movement in her house. Those parallels would sometimes dawn on me unexpectedly, revealing how deeply things she did or provided have remained in my heart in spite of her physical absence in my life since that late September day in 1977. Perhaps it is the lack of direction (and therefore safety) that I currently feel; possibly it is my scattered existence; perhaps it is again that incredible sense of melancholy or loneliness that often is the deepest most consistent feeling I know. What I would give to have a chance to sit down with her and simple hear her voice, experience her smile, and hopefully sense that the profound love I always felt, even when I might have disappointed her.

I know there are times I took her for granted, and the degree to which and depth of how I am profoundly sorry is immeasurable. There is one time I remember clearly the profundity of pain we both felt one rainy cold afternoon when my mother had kicked me out of the house yet again. I threw a few things into my car, telling my father as he arrived home and I was leaving what happened, and drove to the bakery, hoping to return to Harrison Street. When my father had begged me to come back home only weeks before, my choice to return to Riverside hurt my grandmother to the core, and we had both cried when I left. So now when I asked to return, her eyes welled up in tears and she told me she could not allow that to happen because she was in such pain. I was frightened and it was the first time she told me no. I ran out of the bakery to the back lot as the rain poured, crying and she came after me crying also. My immature 16 year old self could only see my pain. I know now the anguish she felt on so many levels had to be agonizing. Grandma, I am so sorry. I am not sure I have ever asked for to be forgiven for my selfishness of that day.

When I returned from the service, I still struggled with my mother, but my grandmother loved me as much as ever, but I was not always in Sioux City to adequately express the love I should have. These are more examples of my taking her for granted. Well, I have spoken of this event in other posts, I will always regret not seeing her the last time I was in Sioux City the summer of 1977. In spite of my promise, I failed to stop by her house. When I got that phone call late in September that she had passed away, I was heartbroken. More significantly, I was ashamed and felt a profound guilt. I remember sobbing at her grave. My entire body shook as I tried to grasp the loss of my protector, of my hero. Only a few months before he had been there when I struggled with my brother’s death. She was only 64 years old. Now I look at that as so young.

Grandma, in spite of my failings, in spite of what is currently seeming as a step backwards, as I try to regroup and understand my path forward, I hope that you know how much I still love you, how much I still miss you. I hope that in some small way I have made you proud, and that I honor the amazing woman you are to me yet today. Thank you for everything you did to love me, to raise me, and to support me. I am so blessed.

To all, thank you for reading this tribute to my Grandmother Louise. If you have that person still here in your life, let them know how important they are.

Michael

Every Silence Screams Volumes

Hello on a rainy and somewhat foreboding fall day,

During the night I heard the rain steadily pelt my window, sounding more like sleet, something yet to come (perhaps sooner than I desire) as we move into November. As I sit in Starbucks in the library doing work, or attempting, I am struggling with formulas for chats and wishing I knew some things a bit better than I do. I think I might have to see if I can log into LinkedIn Learning as an emeritus. I think I need a quick lesson or two. The past month seems so much like the Tale of Two Cities to me that it is beyond words or emotions. Waiting for my consulting appointment for cataract surgery has me in a state of limbo, and with my belongings and tasks in different places, in different states, and at different phases, I feel like I have less power than I normally do. And yet in spite of the in media res reality of life, I am adding some additional components, projects to what I am doing. It’s both exciting and extensive, but also interesting and connects areas of my entire life.

One of the things I learned when I wax a parish pastor was the importance of listening and observing. I often say it is where I first began to read-between-the-lines. When you wear that turned-around shirt, people will generally give you the milk-toast version of their situation. It is not that they are trying to be dishonest, but more often it is their fear of being too vernacular, too earthy. Consequently, there is a need to ascertain the reality, the realness, of the story and their subsequent need to come to the pastor’s office. Often it is in the silence, the pauses, the absence of words one hears things most loudly, the most clearly. Sometimes it is what is written that one speaks most intentionally. As I wrote this post on a Halloween Day, it does not go unnoticed that today in 1517, Martin Luther chose to nail his 95 written Theses on the Castle Door in Wittenberg. So to my Lutheran clergy friends, my friends from a Lutheran tradition, or those who claim to be Lutheran, Happy Reformation Day. I smile as I think back to a party we had on Reformation Day in seminary. Honestly it was one of the more enjoyable unique parties I ever went to in any of my college/grad school time. Perhaps, as an aside, the most hilarious/unexpected party I ever attended in my higher educational time was also at seminary. It was a Tupperware party. Remember those??

We all know people who fall into the category of loud or boisterous as well as people who are quiet, reserved, seldom speaking out. They are the people I find the most interesting; the people to whom we should perhaps see as most important to listen, wanting to hear what little things they might say, but I think it is what they do not say that might be most significant. Their silence is incredibly loud. I remember in the service it was common knowledge that the people most quiet one needed to be careful of, attentive to. When I was first in the parish, and it is this next week, 37 years ago, I was installed at Trinity, often the most profoundly faithful people were the weekly parishioners who sat in their same spot weekly; their reverence was demonstrated by the quiet, but habitual manner, they worshipped. I remember being asked in my call committee interview how I understood a person who did not attend services regularly? I still believe the piety of attending worship and what is in the heart of a person was not something I had the right to judge or believe I had the insight to determine.

As I get older, I appreciate silence so much more than when I was younger. The solitude of a quiet space can do more to quell my troubled soul than anything else. Proverbs notes “The one who has knowledge uses words with restraint, and whoever has understanding is even-tempered.” And goes on to say, “Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues.” I remember a CPE colleague once telling me I needed to speak less. I was shocked at the time, but even shortly thereafter, I realized she was correct. Learning to speak less and listen more has been a life-long struggle, but I think it was because when I was young I was afraid to speak. It has taken some time to return to the place where I am content to step back. I think it was when I was at Dana that being older and a known person before I arrived that pushed me into a place where I was expected to speak, or at least I believed that to be the case. And certainly the roles or positions I have held for close to 40 years have put me in front of people. And yet, ironically, I believe it was being in front of people, expected to speak that I learned to appreciate my silence, or opportunities to say less rather than more. My tolerance for volume (and noise that is simply noise) has lessened, and I am not completely sure if that is a hearing issue (which is probably part of it) or it is I do not really like commotion. I have realized that even when I am in a crowd of people. Once upon a time I probably found energy in that. That is certainly no longer the case. Even when I was at a holiday function or family celebration over the last years, I can only manage a certain level or time frame, and I have to step back. Even a walk outside.

Perhaps that is why I like driving so much. I am in a solitary situation. I am in control of my space. Even my daily habits have changed in terms of when I get up and go to bed. My former students used to be stunned when I returned an assignment to the CMS at 2:30 a.m., and it was because I was still up grading. Now, most nights, and this has been for a few years, I am in bed by 9:00-9:15 p.m. And my alarm is set for 7:15 a.m. on weekdays and 7:45 a.m. on weekends, though I am generally awake before my alarm goes off. It seems that there has been almost a 180 from the person I was even into my 40s. As I spoke with a couple of different people in the last 48 hours, two or three times the Myers Briggs Personality Inventory came up, and I am well aware that mine has changed significant from 40 years ago. The importance of solitude is well-documented. Reflection in the quietness of a day is helpful. Mindfulness and presence, the understanding of who you are as well as where you are in not a bad thing. In the silence you hear more than you realize. The irony of this next statement is not lost on me as I am writing on a social platform, but the chance to step away from the noise of the computer, the pressure of believing we need to keep up with what is being said on multiple platforms, or convincing ourselves that we need to stay in contact with so many (in spite of the propensity I have to stay in touch, yet another incongruity) is something I find I need more and more. For sometime, I have been able to sit in the middle of a coffee shop and tune out the noise around me. I think back to the amount of time I have spent in Caribous, Starbucks, Fog and Flame, Brewskis, Coffee Grounds, and I have spent probably years of my life in coffee shops. The amount of money I have spent is probably not calculable. And yet, often I could be there in solitude in the middle of the crowd, I once referred to myself as the “lonely-in-the-middle-of-the-crowd person, and I believe that is even more true now. I love silence now because I love to listen to the sounds of silence, which, of course, was an incredibly popular song, originally by Simon and Garfunkel, and now covered by multiple genres. In fact, it seems to be one of the songs to do. Perhaps it is because we do need silence, we need the quiet. I believe it an essential element of mental health as it can strengthen our emotional wellness or awareness, our psychological resilience and it can even reduce inflammation, which is the root of many of our physical maladies. Even now as I write this, I am sitting in the corner of somewhere local, and even now I will put in my AirPods to minimize what I am hearing. It is time to work on some other tasks. As we finish October and move into November we will be back to Standard Time, the trees are beyond peak color, and the hint of something much colder is in the air. I wish you all peace and time for solitude. It is a good time to take a walk and notice the changes. Another irony, I was asked if I wanted to go to this concert at the time, but I could not afford it.

Thank you as always for reading,

Michael