GYMS AND JOURNALS

They say nothing is a coincidence and while I’m not sure this is always true, I’m pretty sure it’s true most of the time. So here’s the thing. I have rejoined a gym, the YMCA to be exact. I did this just as I am about to revisit the journals I wrote after being shot, during my search and reunion with my birth-mother, the suicide of my adoptive mother and so on.

Right near where I am writing these words now there are three stacks of journals, most of them those black and white marble composition books. While some are a bit dusty, I open them and the words are of a temperament any dust I know would be afraid to go near them. One line reads “I am walking in the space between life and death and the pressure is immense.” I never met a particle of dust, and I’ve met my fair share I can tell you in my 54 years, that would have the moxie to go anywhere near that line.

It makes sense that I would rejoin a gym now. Writing a memoir is an emotional experience in the first place, but, for me, walking back into the journals written during some difficult times can be emotionally overwhelming. Is it any wonder something in me suggested now might be a good time to get myself back into shape? I have long ago learned that the physical self is not, I repeat, not separate from the emotional and spiritual self.

I would like to write more on this and am sure I will. But I don’t have time at the moment. Why, you might ask? I have to go to the gym.

It can be mighty hard not firing back at someone who has treated you in a way that would make being treating like a second-class citizen feel like you’d been elevated to the ranks of the elite.

Sheathing ones “sword” can be painful, especially when you know that the person you were inclined to draw it on is one who claimed to love and care about you, one who told you that their family was your family, and one who was, on reflection, almost gaudy and certainly melodramatic in their claim that your pledge to be there for them meant so very much. It is not easy when you realize it meant nothing, other than in the smokey light of their penchant for treating life like a movie, moments like scenes, and people like actors that can be recast at will since, after all, nothing is real.

Yet, when my anger begins to emerge, I remember that this is a person who grew into patterns for a reason. And the all of this person is not bad. Have I been wounded? Certainly. Will I heal? Absolutely. The question is, will they? I hope so, I truly do. The patterns were there long before I came along and they are there now. The real question is this. Will this person get free of them before there time in life is up? I hope so.

I am holding my fire. I am not, as I reflect, anywhere near past my anger. But I will be. And when I am, I do not want to look back and know I fired and wounded this person. I would rather look back and know I let go, and forgave, and wished them well.

The following piece by Reinhold Niebuhr is an exquiste one, and for me, says it all, for now.

Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime,
Therefore, we are saved by hope.
Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; Therefore, we are saved by faith.
Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone.
Therefore, we are saved by love.
No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as from our own; Therefore, we are saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.

MARIA, MARIA, MARIA

I can think of no better way to begin a new year than to be contacted by a friend from many years ago. Arriving home today there was an e-mail awaiting me from a professional affiliation letting me know that a friend of mine named Maria was looking for me. Soon I was listening to a warm familiar voice on my voice mail and a few minutes after that a warm familiar voice on the telephone. There is a cliche kicking about that goes something like it’s like we never missed a beat, and so it was in talking with Maria. We had not talked in more than 20 years.

I have known Maria since she was about 16 years old. She is now 47 and lives in Florida with her 12-year-old daughter. We were both working in market research when we met and while I did not ask her today, I’m quite sure we are both glad that chapter in our employment lives is behind us. While market research no doubt has its place in the social scheme of things, I don’t think either of us fit its construct with any degree of comfort.

Until today, I could have easily gone my entire life without visiting Florida. Not so any more. I plan on visiting Maria and look forward to meeting her daughter.

From the moment I met her it was clear that Maria has a heart rich with kindness. Moreover, it was clear that she was and is exceptionally bright. She sent me a recent picture and at age 47 is even more beautiful than when I knew her those many years ago. I suppose some would say it is unusual for someone to be more attractive at 47 than they were when they were in their teens and early twenties, but then this brings me to another thing that was clear about Maria from the moment I met her. She is somewhat of a nonconformist with a rebellious streak, albeit a peaceful one.

There is a part of Maria too that knows how to reach in and touch the heart if someone she cares about, no matter how much time has gone by. She did it to me today when she sent me an e-mail with poem deeply familiar to my very soul.

It reads:

In all times
And in all lives
There are moments
Filled with the sincerest love and intimacy
You and I have shared such moments
And I thank you
And love you
For those times.

It’s title is “In All Times”. It is the poem I wrote for my father just days after he died on August 16, 1969. I was 15.

It is good to hear from Maria, it is good to know she is alive and well. I am looking forward to visiting Florida, and hugging the woman who has held fast to a part of me and my father all these years.

SCENE: MAN AND WOMAN OUT FOR A DRIVE.

W – I’ve been thinking about bringing more vintage clothes into the shop. Quite honestly, they are selling very well. I love it when I’m able to choose something and it works out. I’ve been rather lucky like that. Remember when I had all those bags? They sold right away. It’s the same thing with the vintage clothes; they’re selling almost as fast as I put them out. (Long pause). Okay, enough. Stop it.

M- What?

W- You know. Just stop it. You now exactly what you’re doing?

M- What am I doing?

W- I don’t have to tell you, you know.

M- I don’t, swear to God, I really don’t. Maybe if you tell me I’ll know what I’m supposed to stop.

W- Want me to tell you?

M- That would be helpful.

W- Your being quiet on purpose when I’m talking.

M- I’m what?

W- You heard me. You’re being quiet when I talk and you’re doing it on purpose.

M- Sorry. I’ll try and do it by accident from now on.

W- Thank you, sweetie. Don’t you think it’s a good idea, more vintage clothes?

A terrified crow with broken wing was in the water frantically splashing about in a futile effort to take flight.

My Dad and I were walking along the shore of a lake with Lou Levy, a friend of my fathers, and Mr. Levy’s male black Labrador retriever when we saw the injured bird.

My memory says the bird was fifty yards off shore, but I am aware that everything looks bigger and farther and higher to the mind of a child than it does to the mind of an adult.

Mr. Levy told his dog to fetch the bird. Mr. Levy said his dog would bring the crow back to shore unharmed. Cutting a gentle wake, the black lab swam towards the crow. Terrified, the crow continued to splash frantically.

The dog reached the crow and tried to get it into its mouth to bring it to safety. The crow lashed out. Again, the dog tried. Again, the crow lashed out. This happened two or three more times. Finally, the dog realized this was not going to work. He then did the most remarkable thing. He swam to the far side of the crow and began to swim in circles. He didn’t swim in circles around the crow. He swam in circle on the side of the crow opposite the shoreline. By doing so he created a small wave that slowly pushed the crow towards the shore. Soon Mr. Levy and my father rescued the bird and took him to the vet.

It seems to me the crow’s behavior is common in people. Sometimes, when we are hurt, in tough shape, in denial about something, injured in some way, we lash out at those that try to reach out to us. We wound those that care most without meaning to and, in many instances, without even realizing it. No doubt, the crow honestly thought the dog meant it harm. Nevertheless, the crow was wrong. All the dog wanted to do was help it to safety.

I think most of us have been on each side of this experience. We’ve been the wounded and the one doing the wounding. We’re only human after all. When we reach out to someone we care about, even for just a friendly telephone conversation, and get wounded for our efforts, it is likely that the person, like the crow, honestly thinks we mean them harm, even though we don’t.

Perhaps we would be wise to take a lesson from the crow. Maintain enough distance for our own safety, yet do what we can, gently and lovingly, to help the person we care about reach the shore safely and, like the black lab, ask for nothing in return.