Musings

Transitions at 67

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The old paradigm is gone. It seems people no longer consider age a boundary marker. It used to be that “retirement” was regulated by years. Now we say, “Sixty is the new forty.” One student, who discovered my age, in an obvious lapse of decorum, intoned that I was “older than his parents.” Yeah. That seems about right. More recently I was referred to as a “person of a certain age.” I asked for an explanation. “It’s a way of *not* suggesting someone is older,” was the response. I laughed. How we twist our language! Still more have suggested I am not “old” but “older.” Which just makes me laugh again. My children told me seven years ago, “Dad, you’re a *young* sixty.” After due reflection, I think I’ll stick with that clarification.
A new paradigm has arrived. When I have told people that I was hired for a new position, not one person mentioned age. In fact, no one has suggested a transition to a new job depends on age. To a degree, I wonder if people may have come to realize that age has advantages. For instance, I seem to have exhibited expertise and experience enough to warrant the position for which I’m now employed. It strikes me that in the same way we should not view people based on an identity, class, gender, religion, or ethnicity, neither should we consider age as a parameter for workforce participation. Much less life participation.
Still, to be transitioning to a new academic position seems quite odd. To me, at least. It feels cumbersome to weigh the options of age in comparison to when I was younger. True, I don’t have as much energy as I used to. Yet I seem to accomplish more now than then. True, I don’t look like I used to. But honestly, folks just don’t seem to care about “looks.” True, I have lost a lot along the way. My focus has narrowed so I don’t participate in varied activities. I’ve “lost” jobs which turned out to be something good later. I’ve lost abilities; my eyesight has diminished but the list is long, so I’ll stop there. And I’ve “lost” my son (some would say), the thought or mention of his person floods my eyes.
And, perhaps, that will be the transition I anticipate the most, being with him again. Robin has said, through tears, “Tyler would be so proud of you.” I know Chelsea is, Robin too. And the rest of the family. So maybe this transition has the possibility of being the best one yet. Who knows. Tomorrow, according to calendars, I “turn” 67. I don’t feel it, think it, or see it when I look in the mirror. And maybe that’s the best transition. To be on to the next thing. To care for as many people as I can, to research and teach and write and speak as best as I can, with the strength and life given to me. Tomorrow will be another day, another God-given opportunity. Just another transition.
Written for social media on 6 May 2024.

Instant Eternal

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The line
Between
Here and There
Now and Then
Does not exist
In the way
We think,
Enamored,
As we are,
With what
We think.
Instead
Of what
He thinks.
The Majesty
Of the moment
Is in every
Clock’s tick
Our opportunity
Our responsibility
Our urgency
To live
As if
Tomorrow
We die
[We will]
Yet our life
Counts forever;
Our life given for
The instant, Eternal.
I have been pondering Bono’s Surrender over the past weeks. His words have sparked my words, poetry gushing each morning. A cutting here prompted the poem “Instant Eternal,” one that should call us all to consider now and Then, here and There.
“Andy Warhol went to Mass every Sunday and volunteered in New York food kitchens all through his life. He never talked about God, but his first work and his last work were religious. In the art dictionary, you find that pop was about the death of God because if there’s no eternal, then we must live in the instant. But the job of art is making the instant eternal” (p 332).

Don’t Ask and I Won’t Tell

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“How ya’ doin’?” is the general way the question is asked. People who ask it fall into categories. Some mean, “Hi.” The question becomes an informal greeting. The person isn’t expecting you to answer. Others wonder, truly, about your well-being. The individual is expecting a reply akin to “Fine, thank you.” Their interest is intentional, kind, and superficial. Very few really want to know in what way your life is going. When things aren’t going so well, and I’m in the proper mind to address the issue, my response to the question is another question. “Do you really want to know?!”

Here’s the thing. If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. But you better be prepared. You may or may not be ready for my answer. I may use words you don’t normally hear. The expression on my face may make you want to take a step back. The tone of my voice may make you shudder.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not mad at you. I’m not trying to prove a point.

But this one thing is true. If you ask me how I’m doing, you better be ready for the answer.

All us humans can be quite trivial. We’re trying to be “nice,” to put a “good face on” as we traverse the planet. We’re just trying to make it to the end of the day. I get that. I’ll include myself in the mix. There are days that I repeat Walker Percy’s dictum over and over.

A man can know the meaning of life but he still has to make it through Wednesday afternoon.

Yeah, man. I’m there. My metaphysical, theological assumptions are set (sorry to use the big, necessary words, but I had to go there first). There are episodes from my past that haunt me. Like the movie Magnolia says,

“You may think you’re through with the past, but the past ain’t through with you.”

The awfulnesses of life I’ve experienced (and if you really want to know what they are, see above) rekindle my anger at the people and the situations I experienced. Deep scars mar the interior of my person, both self-inflicted and others-instigated; and those scars ache from time to time.

At any given moment, just like you I suspect, I may not be in a place to really communicate the honesty of what I think. Unless you really want to hear it. Every single one of us struggles with ourselves. We are, as so many have said, our own worst enemies. We don’t mean to be obstinate or dispassionate. But the swamp sucks us in sometimes. And we are wading neck deep through troubled waters.

So, next time you want to say “Hello,” to someone, say that. Or maybe you just want to be friendly. “Glad to see you” will suffice. On those rare occasions, however, when you really mean “I’m wondering how you are doing, how is life treating you, how are you feeling about living today?” be ready. I’ll look you in the eye to make sure you are serious. I’ll probably even ask you if you are. But if you’re not ready to hear what I really think, then, don’t ask and I won’t tell.

Like everyone, I struggle with myself, others, my surroundings, and generally, life itself. But if you want a real conversation, I’m glad to chat. I’ll buy the first round.

5 Poems I Find Useful

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My children dragged me kicking and screaming into poems and their poets in the 90’s. And I am ever thankful that they did. Now, I wonder if I could live without it, without expressing myself in it, without giving the poetry of Scripture its due. This week I discovered Marianne Moore, a modernist poet whose work is straightforward, direct, to-the-point; qualities I find most attractive. I use Moore’s line “because they are useful” to explain why, in my grief over Tyler’s death, poetry matters.

Following Moore’s opening in her poem “Poetry” are four poems written during January and February 2023 that I find “useful” to express my emptiness, my unending sorrow.

 

“Poetry,” Marianne Moore
I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this
   fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers
   that there is in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
   Hands that can grasp, eyes
   that can dilate, hair that can rise
   if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they
   are
   useful . . .
Flowers
Monthly,
Without fail,
Flowers
Are placed
Where his body
Rests.
He is with us
We are with him
Forever joined, though
Earthly
Presence
Parted
All, save, one day
Each month where
We gather again.
Again
Thoughts
(Pinballs)
Careening
Lighting the board
Sounding the game
Scoring points
Eventually disappearing
Into the center chasm
Frantic flippers
Unable to stop
The disappearance.
And so I write
Hoping to capture
A moment where
He appears to me again.
Hero
To honor a fallen comrade
Military air units fly an aerial salute,
Called, “the missing man formation”
Signifying that one soldier
Did not come home
But gave the ultimate
Sacrifice
To preserve
And protect
Others,
His mission
Complete.
At the end of every conversation, I would say,
“Son, you face horrors I will never know.
You’ll always be my hero.”
Storehouse
Belongings packed
The house is empty
Just as it was
When he moved in
For sale signs we took down
Are now up again.
The walls are bare
My spirit is bare
My prayers are bare.
Wheeler Mission is home
For his possessions now
As I stare vacantly at the wall
No thought in my head
But space enough to fill
A storehouse of memories.
And I weep.

202*

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202*
Asterisk *stars* are used for
emphasis instead of C*PITALIZING
expunging the vowel in a prof*nity
a symbol in c*lculation
footn*tes in essays
r*dialing the last call
For all these reasons
I will use the asterisk to mark
This year.
To expunge a day
To multiply days
To emphasize daily
To footnote the date
To star the calendar
To redial the number
It is a year to forget
It is a year to remember
It is a year, seared in me.
I wish for a mulligan
I wish for a do-over
I wish for an asterisked, 202*
*16 June 2022 our son, Tyler Micah ended his life, having fought the principalities and powers for 22 years. He died in the battle but lives on in Eternity, in history, in daily memory.

Empty Chair

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I sat on the deck

Talking to him tonight

Smoke and glass hand

 

Telling him how much

I miss him

On this earth with me

 

Ahead of the artic blast

I shiver and shake

Not for cold

 

But for the absence

The son who is

On the Other Side

 

To say that I miss him

Is a blip on the screen

Of a radar full of his presence

 

Yeah, it’s Christmas

A time to remember who is not here

And it hurts in my bones

 

The tears are ever-present

My grief takes control

In the end all that should be

 

Is all that is

The absence

The empty chair.

Tiny Tim

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Tiny Tim

 

Scrooge was told

The chair might be empty

At the Christmas table.

 

I fully understand

Now

The father’s sadness

 

In a future that could be,

For the Cratchits –

That IS, for me –

 

And for my family,

And for the friends

Who miss their beloved

 

Tyler.

 

Another crutch without an owner

The object once belonging

To Tiny Tim.

 

12 Days of Teaching

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Having finalized grades, and in keeping with The Holiday, I made up my own carol, to be sung with gusto to the tune of “The 12 Days of Christmas.” Dedicated to all teachers everywhere.

On the first day of teaching my students sent to me

“I need an ‘A’ in this class”

On the second day of teaching my students sent to me,

Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the third day of teaching my students sent to me,

Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the fourth day of teaching my students sent to me,

Four absences, Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the fifth day of teaching my students sent to me,

FIVE HUGE BEGS, Four absences, Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the sixth day of teaching my students sent to me,

Six papers posing, FIVE HUGE BEGS, Four absences, Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the seventh day of teaching my students sent to me,

Seven notions lacking, Six papers posing, FIVE HUGE BEGS, Four absences, Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the eighth day of teaching my students sent to me,

Eight needs repeating, Seven notions lacking, Six papers posing, FIVE HUGE BEGS, Four absences, Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the ninth day of teaching my students sent to me,

Nine quizzes failing, Eight needs repeating, Seven notions lacking, Six papers posing, FIVE HUGE BEGS, Four absences, Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the tenth day of teaching my students sent to me,

Ten projects missing, Nine quizzes failing, Eight needs repeating, Seven notions lacking, Six papers posing, FIVE HUGE BEGS, Four absences, Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the eleventh day of teaching my students sent to me,

Eleven excuses giving, Ten projects missing, Nine quizzes failing, Eight needs repeating, Seven notions lacking, Six papers posing, FIVE HUGE BEGS, Four absences, Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class

On the twelfth day of teaching my students sent to me,

Twelve grounds for-passing, Eleven excuses giving, Ten projects missing, Nine quizzes failing, Eight needs repeating, Seven notions lacking, Six papers posing, FIVE HUGE BEGS, Four absences, Three missed preps, Two poor plans and I need an ‘A’ in this class.

3 Poems on Grief

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Ache

 

The throbbing is deep –

Canyon wide –

Tears cut the gorge.

 

I scream

And the echo finds me

Right from where it was sent

 

I hope for a response

Mannequin still I stand

Hoping beyond hope

 

Just to hear him,

Even just to stand with him,

Again.

 

Alone, in a place

Called Hollow

I pitch my tent

 

And look over the vast expanse

Of the ache

That will never let me forget.

 

Wailing

 

I heard it first in Robin

The moment we received

The news

 

Of Tyler’s death.

She wailed.

The deep, gut-wrenching

 

Shrieks of agony.

I can hear them still

A pulsating memory.

 

It is not unusual

That we cry together

Or recount our individual

 

Trail of tears

Any given day

But this week

 

The wailing was my voice

Hearing the howling roar

Of my fulminating fury

 

Volcanic thunderstorm

Spewing, searing,

Scalding, scorching

 

Every thought or emotion

In its path.

After I recalled,

 

The subterranean hell

Cascading lava of

Schizophrenia Tyler lived with

 

Every

Single

Day.

 

There is no wailing without remembering.

 

Habitation

 

It has taken up residence

It inhabits my inmost being

It resides in my flesh

 

It beats in my brain

It crawls beneath my skin

It pulses in my blood

 

It waters my eyes

It twists my smile

It catches my breath

 

It usurps my thoughts

It screams in my emotions

It coerces my will

 

It is in my waking

It is in my laboring

It is in my sleeping

 

It is my grief

It is my life

It is my habitation.

3 Poems About Loss: Tattoo, Python, There

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Tattoo

Years ago

When it all began

He got a tattoo

 

On his hip

Like Jacob

He wrestled

 

With God

As I do now,

For different reasons.

 

My cause is not

Autonomous

Anti-Sovereignty.

 

It is the loss

That I question

The 22-year

 

Combat

On behalf of

In support of him.

 

We

Marched

Against

 

The gates of hell

His battle

Every day.

 

I miss the fight

I miss the cost

I miss my son.

 

My tattoo

Is re-inked

Every day.

 

Python

It takes a ‘minute’

To catch my breathe

To regain

 

What people call

‘Normal’

Which doesn’t exist

 

But I try

To live

As best I can

 

With people

Who see

But do not know

 

That the python

Gathers itself

Slowly

 

Squeezing

The air

From my lungs

 

As I try to breath

Every minute

To sustain.

 

 

There

It

Happened

Again

 

The usual:

After class

I picked up

 

The phone

To dial

His number.

 

Unconsciously

I assume, he

Will pick up.

 

But then

Consciously

I remember

 

He’s

Not

There.