Mind Gardens: July 2012

Rage On

Rage on, dear ones — to the end,
til’ bones and heart and soul clank
hard—roar loud at Gravesend.

Unleash yourself, make your play,
dance, prance—yack at the storm.
Race headlong in. Abuse the fray.

Do not be gentle with the Fates,
not soft or feckless, nor alarmed
if you throw seven to their eight.

Sprint past what you have not.
Blind men have more than sight,
who rage on with what they've got.

Rage on, dear ones, in each new sun.
The hours watch, beg, and bet you on
as Gods descend to judge who's won.

Today's your day, the next a dream.
Now is where the magic's made,
tomorrow — fickle Future's scheme.

Be brave and bold, denounce your fear.
Mark the prize and then press on.
If you look back, you'll still be here.

Rage on dear ones, with all your heart.
Your race is on — the time is short,
the bell has tolled, it's time to start!

We Didn't Plant Jane

We didn't plant Jane like we did
— do with all our others. We honored
her wish and burned her body into ashes.

It's one thing to know about cremation
as something others do with the leftover,
evacuated evidence of a life once lived—
surely as meaningful as mine ... or yours.
It was quite another to see Jane poured out
of a small unremarkable container onto
the damp, musty, busy forest floor behind
Herbie's house where her beloved cat
was buried. She wanted to be close to
her most loyal companion. I suspect the
sentiment was mutual.

I had known her my entire life. That means
always, from before the beginning of memory
to … when? To the pouring of the ashes?
To the precise end of our last conversation?
To the official moment of her death? – when
I was not there … could not make it in time.
To the end of memory … the end of caring?
When did I stop knowing her? Have I?

Others I've loved have died. We buried them,
put them in airtight containers and put them
in the ground in fields of memories so
we could imagine that somehow they still
existed or would have evidence that they did.
An attempt to mitigate our loss? Disguise Death?
At least there was something left, a marker,
some words chiseled onto a piece of stone
that reassured us that we had loved them,
been loved by them … and it told others.

Jane was eight years older than I, my eldest sister.
That distanced us when we were children.
As I, tentatively, met my fellow kindergartners,
Jane was entering puberty. The distance between
five and thirteen is immense. But the distance
between fifty and fifty-eight is not much at all.
Most of us have been wrenched out of childhood,
shaped and cured by the vagaries of life, by then.
We became close friends, which is a very nice
thing for brothers and sisters. But nothing is free
in this life. That's what my mother told me. "Nothing
is free, Bobby. You'll see. There is a price for everything."

Jane told me that she had always wanted to be a
dancer. It was a childhood dream of hers. She was
in her seventies when she told me that. And she
had other dreams that never came true. All those
years and I never knew these things about my
sister. She wasn't bitter, just accepting, perhaps
resolved. I cried a little inside for the things she
wouldn't allow herself to cry about. Jane didn't
cry easily—even when she was whipped with
the Cat-Of-Nine-Tails. It was about principles.
Jane could be stubborn.

When her son, Billy, poured her ashes onto the
dark, damp ground I thought, "Is that it? Is that
all that is left of my sister? Where are her dreams,
her laughter, her sorrow? She hasn't finished yet!"
Though she said she had. "Where are the myriad
of things of a life lived? Where is the intelligence
I saw in her eyes, the knowledge unique to her?
Where is my dear sister? How can I love her now?
How can she love me?"

Wait, we don't even have a marker! But then markers
don't last forever, either.

Mother was right. Nothing is free in this life
... not even love.

Are You?

When I was a child my mother taught me
to say a prayer before I went to sleep.
“Now I lay me down to sleep …”
It taught me that my life was fragile,
could be taken away at any moment
and if it happened while I was sleeping
I hoped that God would take my soul
(Me?)
and everything would be just fine—
that was, if He decided to take my soul.
(No one mentioned a guarantee.)

It was instructive and comforting … then.
I've had a lot of questions since “then”
but I have distilled them all into just one:
“Are You?” That's it. It's not complicated.
It's not deep or profound. It is a simple
question, which remains unanswered.

I went to Sunday School. I was a choir boy.
I studied the Bible in a Methodist prep
school. I read the major philosophers—
consulted others; pastors, priests, thinkers.
I thought about and considered it all
carefully and with great diligence.

Some believers told me that God speaks
with them. I asked them how. “Do you hear
His voice?” They said, “Not exactly, I just
know.” They said, “Pray to Him and ask
him to speak to you.” I said that I had, do,
but He does not speak to me. Some told me
to keep trying, praying, and when I told them
I had tried for many years, they said I needed
to have faith. I had heard that all my life.
“You just need to have faith, Bobby.” But, I
wondered; if having faith—belief—will get
God to talk with me, then who, what else
would talk with me if I had enough faith?
Did having faith make God real? Was He
not real before faith? Where was He before
someone believed in Him?

Some said, “It's all in the Book of God,
God's Book. It is all there. You simply need
to believe the words in the Book.” But, I said,
“The Book was written by men who lived
thousands of years ago in a land and in a culture
far different than ours. Is it reasonable to have
faith in these men with whom we have little
in common and about whom we know so little?”

“Well,” they replied, “you see the words are not
theirs, they are the words of God. God spoke to
these men and told them what they should know
and believe and how they must lead their lives.”
“So sayeth the men.” said I.

I asked, “Which is the real Book of God for there
are many.” Each one said, "Mine, the one I believe
in. It is the true Book of God.” My Jewish friends
said that and my Christian friends said that and
my Muslim friends said that and the Rabbis and
Pastors and Imams said that.

I learned that they make war against each other
and slaughter each other to force their beliefs on
each other. That is, except the Jews. Even though
they claimed God first, I learned that they don't
force their beliefs on anyone. They just ask to be
left alone, which hasn't worked out well for them.
Some said their God is a god of love.

I then learned that Jews argue among Jews about
what the words in their Books mean and that
Christians and Muslims argue among themselves
over the intent and meaning in their Books.

I asked, “Was God not perfectly clear when He
told these men what they should know and believe
and do? There seems to be a great deal of confusion
about what God said.” They replied, “God was clear.
The imperfect nature of man is the cause of this
confusion.” “Then how can we trust that the words
in the Book of God are the words of God if they were
written by men and men cannot be relied upon?”
I asked.

Once again, I was reassured by each, “You can trust
my Book. It is the Word of God.”

I'm Not Dead Yet

I'm tired of damn near everything. I can't remember the last time I was really excited—about anything. I mean I literally cannot remember the last time. That's pathetic. No, maybe that's the wrong word. Pathetic would be the right word if I were young because getting excited when we're young is a core emotion and function; there is lots of discovery going on and that can and should be exciting. But I'm not young, I am old. I'm past the male life expectancy number in the U.S.A., so that's old. Oh, I'm still curious about some things, big and small, like what in the hell is this all about—who are we, what are we, where are we, why are we. I'm still not satisfied or convinced by anything I have read or heard so far and I have read most of the important stuff and talked with and listened to a lot of apparently smart people who say they have the answers. But for whatever reasons, I am still as unconvinced as ever. So I am still thinking about those things. And I am still curious and fascinated with what goes on—the complexity of nature, the idiosyncratic behaviors of men, mice, all the rest, including the accomplishments of humans in their inexorable march toward … whatever, which as you should have noticed takes us back to the big questions. Think circular.

But curiosity and fascination don't replace excitement. It's better than nothing, I admit. So it is something. Years ago when I was young I read a quote by an ancient Roman or Greek comedian. I don't remember which. He said he was depressed because all the jokes had already been told, that there was nothing new for him to say. He said that about 2000 years ago. Of course it can be argued that all things are new to each generation and that maybe he was not the most creative guy or maybe he was just a lousy comedian. But maybe he was making a larger point. Maybe he was making an existential statement or observation. We'll probably never know but it doesn't matter because it doesn't change anything. The questions we ask now are the same questions that humans have been asking for, perhaps, as long as we have been here. You see where this has taken me? There is no forethought here; I am just writing this as it comes to me. It's a “thoughts-to-paper” thing.

It should be obvious to you (Of course I have no idea if anyone will ever read this or if they do, who they are—who you are.) by now that I miss excitement in my life, the kind of excitement that at one time really got my juices flowing. It may not be the same kind of excitement that gets you pumped and eager for more; we each have our own set of interests. So just imagine if whatever excites you now—stuff that you eagerly look forward to—were to become mundane, even boring. Like I said, if you are young, that might be pathetic.

Well, I can tell you, for this old reprobate, the only thing that shifts it a little distance from the proximity of pathetic is the subtle process of getting old. This stuff doesn't happen in a startling flash in time. There is no wow thing—no “Holy crap! What happened?" – moment; at least not for me. It was an insidious, inexorable, sneaky kind of thing. There were a series of displaced moments over a period of years when I felt—at times, with sadness—that something was duller, less purposeful, disturbingly absent. The youthful emotion of excitement was dying.

I know, there are those in my generation who insist that they wake up with a zest for life. I believe some of them—not all but some. Some have different social and family lives than I or have had different life challenges. Those things can sometimes make a difference. Then too we are all wired differently. Nothing new there. For full disclosure I will duly note that most people I know think I have the demeanor and outlook of someone much younger than I am. I hear it often enough to convince me that they're not stroking me. So what's the deal? What's going on? It's simple; it's all about me and how I feel and think about myself. That's what I am writing about—me. That is except for all the others who may share my experience. Not inadvertently, I am also writing about them. It's personal, singular, a simple exposition on one's current life experience—nothing original, nor uncommon.

What's that? Is there anything at all that could, would excite me? Glad you asked because I almost forgot something. If I knew that tomorrow, or sometime very soon, I was going to fly again, I mean at the controls of an airplane—that would excite me. I might even feel that core excitement again if I had a license and knew that I could fly almost anytime I want to! Is that possible? Yes, it is at least possible.