Frank is Emptiness

Christmas Day, 2018

Hans might be holding Weston right now.

In general, I prefer not to post pictures. Actually, this is probably the first time that I have ever posted a picture on this blog. I am a writer, and I take pride in the fact that I can paint a picture with words. However, I know the limits of my talent. Sometimes words fall short. So, in this case, I am reluctantly posting two images. One of them shows Hans cradling his infant son. The other image is of Weston when he was only a day old.

When I look at the picture of Hans and Weston, I remember how I felt when I looked at Hans almost thirty-two years ago. I am sure that I had the same expression on my face, and that I felt the same sense of wonder and anxiety. I don’t know how a mother feels when she holds her tiny child. I do know how a father feels. There is a mixture of pride and love and raw terror.

The feeling of terror comes from contemplating a new and totally unfamiliar future. Who is this child? Who will he become? How will I care for him? It might not be articulated, but I know that there is the sudden and powerful realization that the father is entering a whole new world. The kid did not come with an operators manual. There is an overwhelming sense of responsibility accompanied by excitement and hope.

Does every father feel these things? Maybe, maybe not. Some fathers see fit to just abandon their child. They refuse to take the next step in life as a man. Perhaps they understand that they don’t know what the hell they are doing. Well, I would argue that no father knows what he is doing. You just kind of make this shit up as you go along. Every child is a brand new adventure, and there is not template for raising a kid. Every baby is unique, and every parent likewise. A father usually only has is own childhood experiences to follow, and those can be woefully inadequate for the new situation.

I know that Hans wants certain things for Weston. He wants him to learn how to hunt and fish and drive pick up trucks. Hans often worries that Weston will grow up feeling “entitled”, like some other young people. I doubt that will be a problem. Hans wants Weston to understand the value of hard work. Hans sees a particular future for his firstborn son. Hans will be partially disappointed. Weston will become Weston, and that may not match anything that Hans imagines.

Hans will pass on certain values to his boy. Hans may not recognize this until many years from now, but someday he will see it. Hans is brave, loyal, honest, and a bit crazy. Those are all good things. Weston will be blessed if he grows up with those same traits.

Weston may very well grow up to be a Texas redneck. I’m good with that. Rednecks are fine people. They have a certain earthiness and honesty that I like. They are generous to a fault. They care for their own.

Weston may grow up liking cowboy boots, guns, and Shiner Bock. Or, maybe he won’t. Weston will be Weston, just like Hans is Hans. I may not live long enough to see who this boy becomes. I am confident that he will be a good man.

 

 

 

December 21st, 2018

No, this essay is not about Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction.

This is about “shiva”, the Jewish mourning ritual. A friend from the synagogue lost his father this week, shiva was incorporated into Mincha/Maariv service at the shul yesterday evening. The prayer service also marked the beginning of Shabbat.

Be advised that I am not Jewish, and that, even after nine years of participating in various services at the synagogue, there are many things that I do not understand. That being the case, if I say something in this post which is glaringly wrong, please forgive me. Better yet, take the time to correct me.

I have been to Mincha in past, but it still sometimes difficult for me to follow along. Last night there seemed to be more than the usual amount of unexpected page-turning in the siddur (prayer book). There were also an unusually large number of people in the synagogue. It’s not often that the place fills up. This time there was no problem finding ten men to form a minyan.

The service started when Larry, the man whose father died, arrived on the scene. He was welcomed by the other members of the congregation. The rabbi spoke about Larry’s father, and he commented that life is a cycle of sadness and joy. Each of us grieves and rejoices at different times. The rabbi pointed out that Larry is now mourning. Then he looked at me and said,

“Frank, a friend of the synagogue, is here. He just became a grandfather. You have a grandson. When was the child born?”

I replied, “Yesterday.”

“So, Frank is rejoicing in his new grandson. Even in the midst of sadness, God brings good things.”

Then the rabbi explained a particular custom that they follow when somebody who is sitting shiva attends Mincha. There are a series of psalms read during Mincha, all of which have a joyful tone. Just prior to the reading of these psalms, the mourner is asked to leave the congregation for a brief time. It is not that he or she is being thrown out. It is more that the other congregants are aware that the person is grieving, and that this individual cannot, at that moment, fully participate in the joy found in these psalms. Once the psalms are finished, the mourner is asked to return and rejoin his friends.

Larry left the room for a bit while the psalms were read. Upon his return, the rabbi explained a bit more about what had transpired. The rabbi said,

“There were a series of six psalms, most of them attributed to David the King. However, there was one psalm that came from the Sons of Korah (Korach). Now, we know from the Torah that Korah rebelled against Moses. God was angered by this, and Korah and his followers were swallowed up by the earth. So, why do we read a psalm from the sons of a rebel? The Sons of Korah survived and lived lives of righteousness. They got something from their father that made them righteous.

When Korah met God, I suspect that God told him, ‘You really screwed up!’, but then He may have also added, ‘But your kids turned out okay.’ The point is that it’s not just our  actions that make a difference in this world. It is also the legacy that we leave.

Look at the legacy of Larry’s father, Ron. Here we all are: davoning (praying), singing, and being here together for Larry. This is a beautiful legacy! This is what Ron has left behind for us.”

During the rest of the service, Larry was able to recite the Mourners Kaddish. That was a comfort to him, and probably to everyone else. It’s a beautiful prayer. It comes from the heart.

There is a power and peace that come when friends pray together. Souls are united. Wounds are healed.

I am glad that was there.

 

 

 

December 17th, 2018

I do not fly very often. I dislike being in an aircraft. This is odd, seeing as I was once a helicopter pilot for five years, but it’s true. I find flying commercially to be cramped and uncomfortable. The trip is some thing to endure, not to enjoy.

My flight home from D.C. took me via Newark, New Jersey. I don’t know why. That’s just how it went. By some stroke of luck, I had a window seat. That made me feel slightly less claustrophobic. It was early evening when the plane took off from Washington National, and it was already quite dark. The sky was clear and cloudless. From the tarmac I could see a thin slice of the crescent moon setting in the west.

The route taken by the pilot took us over highly urbanized areas. The stretch between Washington and Newark is essentially one big city. From an altitude of twenty thousand feet, any dark spaces on the ground looked to be rivers or lakes. All of the land was brightly lit up. The lights were fascinating in a curious way.

From where I was sitting I could look to the east. There was an orange haze on the horizon. Rising above it, I could make out the constellation of Orion. Below the horizon were thousand upon thousands of man made stars. The sky above seemed dim and empty, but the sky below was alive with the patterns of a restless humanity. Our species has forged a new Milky Way, a band of lights uncountable and of endless variety.

Last year, Karin and I spent a few days at a monastery in New Mexico. It was place so dark that the night sky was ablaze with the frozen fire of countless stars. I remember that looking up into the heavens was an overwhelming experience. Strangely, when I was in the airplane, I felt the same way, except that I was looking down instead of up.

I am always grateful when I feel a sense of wonder, a feeling of awe. Usually, this feeling comes from contact with the natural world. However, sometimes, although not very often, this feeling is a result of the works of men and women. Humanity is part of nature, so I guess this makes sense.

I rejoice in any kind of beauty. I rejoiced to see the flickering lights of the stars below us.

 

December 16th, 2018

I met a young woman at the national immigration conference who remarked that it was a “professional” gathering. That’s one way to look at it. In some ways, it felt “corporate” to me. It reminded me of some of the conferences I attended when I worked at the trucking company. I didn’t know anybody this gathering, so every meeting was a chance for a first impression. I found people to be friendly, but wary.

It seemed like everybody had a business card, except for me. Almost everyone was better dressed than I was. Even the would-be revolutionaries looked more formal than I did. I got the sense early on that many people at the conference were there to impress somebody. They were there to make a sales pitch to someone. I felt like many of the participants were wearing a mask, at least at first. It was a show.

Often when I asked a person what they did, they answered me by stating their job title. You know: “executive director”, “assistant administrator”,”grand poobah”, whatever. I can only assume that they hoped to get my attention by telling their rank and position within their respective organizations. I wanted to know what they actually did, which is a completely different matter. I’ve had plenty of titles during the course of my life: “captain”, “platoon leader”, “operations officer”, “supervisor”. None of those ever meant a damn thing, not to me or to anybody else.

I’m not entirely sure why I was there, except that it was just some weird karma. I felt out of place as soon as I entered the hotel. The Crystal Gateway Marriott is, by far, the fanciest place that I have ever stayed. I couldn’t understand why a conference focusing on poor immigrants would choose to meet in facility that none of these immigrants could ever possibly afford to stay at themselves. It was eventually explained to me that some of the attendees were “funders”, the people with the big bucks. Then the location kind of made sense. It’s about attracting the money.

I don’t network, so maybe I shouldn’t have been at the conference at all. I don’t like to meet people simply to find out if they can advance my agenda. That seems mercenary, and somehow manipulative. I just tried to get to know people because I was curious about them. I wanted to understand what made them tick. I wanted to know who they really were.

I don’t have an agenda. I don’t have a job title. I don’t have a business card.

I’m not part of the game.

 

 

 

 

December 15th, 2018

“Know your enemies.”

A woman on a panel in one of the break out sessions said those words. She said them at the very end of the meeting. The session was about how to combat hate groups, such as the white nationalists and related organizations. She then said,

“I know we are supposed to get along with everybody, but I don’t believe in that.”

Her comments bothered me. She had a point in that there are obviously people who hate immigrants. There are also obviously people that are out to get us because we support immigrants. It’s not a bad idea to identify those persons who may pose a direct threat. However, I don’t believe there are many of these individuals. The panelist seemed very interested in determining who is on the opposing side, maybe too interested.

This woman was not the only person at the conference who was eager to talk about enemies. During the last plenary session, a young man got up to speak. He was a member of Nakasec, an organization for immigrants coming from Asia. The man was a DACA recipient, and his future is currently in limbo. As he spoke he became increasingly angry. Finally, he blurted out,

“Fuck Trump!”

That came straight from the heart. Based on all of the things that our president has done to immigrants during the last two years, it is hard to argue with the young man’s sentiment. Nearly everyone at the conference despised Trump, often with great enthusiasm and passion.

Another speaker told everyone in the room, “If you’re white, you are the oppressor!”

Several women railed bitterly against “patriarchy” during one of the plenary sessions. I never quite understood what that word meant to them. One of the speakers attempted to clarify the term by saying,

“We are not against all men. We appreciate our feminist brothers, who walk with us, and don’t get in our way.”

Good to know.

Perhaps I interpreted the comments incorrectly, but I got the distinct impression that counted among the enemies of the immigration movement were old white guys.

That doesn’t give me much room to work, seeing as I am an old white guy, and I expect to remain one. In a conference where diversity of race, nationality, and gender were all celebrated, I felt oddly excluded. I had the sense that my presence was merely being tolerated. Some of the speeches were less than welcoming.

When I interacted with individuals at the conference, it was all good. I could be on friendly terms with each person I met. It was just when the various speakers needed to rally the progressive base, that I felt uncomfortable. It’s nice to know that Donald Trump isn’t the only one who knows how to get a group wound up.

One of the break out sessions was designed show people how to make cross cultural connections. That was very interesting to me. One of the speakers explained how members of his organization went to ninety red, rural counties across the U.S., and how they met with the residents of these communities. The organization did no polling. Instead people went door to door, and they asked each person they met one question:

“What do you need in your neighborhood?”

Then the members of this organization just listened. They didn’t make suggestions. They didn’t present an agenda. They just listened.

And they learned things.

The thrust of the break out session was how to identify potential friends, and then how to get them interested and involved in what we are doing. As one presenter stated,

“You have meet people where they are at, but you can’t just leave them there.”

The panel accepted questions from the audience at the end of the session. I had a question, but I felt like I need to preface it first. I told them,

“I have a son. He lives in Texas and he is an Iraqi War vet. He’s redneck as hell. He thinks I am a damn liberal. But we can talk. We can have a civil conversation, and we can learn from each other. Obviously we have a history together, and we are both veterans. My  question is this: how do I have these kinds of conversations with a stranger?”

The panelists never really answered my question. In a way the question was rhetorical, because I already know the answer. I have those kinds of conversations quite often. To do so, I have to listen and I have to respect the other person. This requires time and patience. The discussion may be uncomfortable, and ultimately fruitless. That doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I recognize and honor the other person’s humanity.

Jesus said, “Love you enemy.” That’s a tall order. The paradox is that, if I can love my enemy, he or she is no longer an enemy. That person is a friend.

 

 

 

 

 

December 11th, 2018

There was a lot of talk at the immigration conference. Actually, it was almost all talk. Some of it was utter nonsense. Some of it was profound. The flow of words was like a roaring river, too swift to follow. I tried to catch a few words, a few phrases. I wrote down the words that caught my ear and touched my heart. I will share at least of them now.

“Do you know what ‘Antisemitism’ means? It means: ‘They are coming to get you too!”

A young woman from Brooklyn said those words while part of panel discussion on bigotry. She rakishly wore a fedora on her head, and she often spouted old school, Marxist slogans. However, in this case, her words were totally right on. She explained that Jews have been targeted by white nationalists because the Jews consistently support the rights of immigrants. The Jews get it. They know. I have noticed this myself. When I have asked for help with immigrants, my Jewish friends have always shown a great deal of interest. It’s in their history. It’s in their DNA. They understand that, if we fail to support those who are now being oppressed, our turn will come.

This idea is for me best expressed by Martin Niemöller, who was not a Jew, but who fought fiercely against the injustices of Hitler’s Third Reich. He said,

“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

When I think about why I am involved with the work to protect immigrants, I think of the words of Pastor Niemöller. I have an immigrant wife. Sure, she has a green card, but what does that really mean? With Trump in office, when will they come for her? When will they come for me?

 

 

December 9th, 2018

I met way too many people at the NIIC (National Immigrant Integration Conference). By the end of the first day, I had already encountered too many faces, too many names, and too many stories. I know that I will forget almost all of these men and women. They will become a blur in my mind. That can’t be helped. However, I will try to describe some of them before my memory gets too muddled.

The conference seemed designed to throw the participants into a swirling mix. Every session rushed immediately upon the heels of the last one. Even the meals were incorporated into plenary meetings. There was no dead time. “Dead time” is probably the wrong term for me to use. Maybe I need to say “time for living”. There was seldom, if ever, a pause in the action, a quiet moment. There was not any time set aside for people to just hang out and learn about each other. For me, this meant that most of my contacts resulted in pathetically shallow relationships. It was always:

“Who are you? Where do you come from? What do you do?”

“Next!”

I truly hate that. I would rather only meet a few people, with the opportunity to understand them a bit, than meet a hundred persons and not really know them at all.

Why was it that way? I don’t know. Maybe the organizers of the conference thought that they needed to give everybody maximum exposure to all the information available about immigration issues. I can understand that, but they could have opened up some time for  interaction between individuals. Honestly, there were many really good programs at the conference. I readily admit that, and I am grateful for those sessions. It’s just that, at least for me, it takes time to get to know someone. The time I needed to do that was not available.

Enough bitching. I need to remember some people. Be advised that each of my descriptions is at best a snapshot. It would be a lie to say that I know any of these people well. All I know is that each person made an impression on me, and I need to write down each impression before it fades.

Malik: He’s an open, extroverted man with a ready smile. He likes to crack a joke and shake a hand. Malik a big black man from Ohio with whom I could somehow be totally honest. I know that he works at the YMCA (as did several other people at the conference), but I don’t really know what he does in particular. I know that he’s Muslim, but that doesn’t matter much to me. He’s more than just his religion. He mentioned it to me in an offhand sort of way: “I hope that you count me among your Muslim friends.” Malik is currently re-reading the autobiography of Malcolm X. It’s a book worth re-reading. For reasons beyond my understanding we hit it off. We traded contact information, but that doesn’t mean anything. Our lives collided for a few moments, and now that’s done. Or maybe it’s not.

Khara: I met Khara at breakfast on the morning of the second day of the conference. We stood together at a table outside the main ballroom. He is short, slight man, easy to miss in a crowd. Khara is from Bhutan. He was once in a refugee camp in Nepal, and now he helps refugees in Pittsburgh. Khara listens. He is comfortable with silence. I admire that. Khara found refugees in Pittsburgh that were already cooperating in an informal sort of way. Khara brought these refugees together in to classes to learn English and to find ways to become part of the larger community. The man works in a quiet, subtle way.

John: He is a big man with a crew cut that is going grey. He looks military, but I’m not sure that he is. John harks from Richmond, Virginia. He helps run a refugee resettlement program. He has a southern vibe that I know very well. His program is slowly diminishing under the current regime in the White House. We found time to just sit and talk. I spoke to him about writing and about the power of stories. He told me about his support for people coming from other parts of the world. The man does very good work. I hope that he can keep doing it.

Djimet: I met this man during one of the short breaks. He was standing against a wall, talking on his phone. Djimet is tall, lean, with skin dark as ebony. I asked him where he as from. He answered solemnly,

“I am from Chad.”

“No, I meant ‘where do you work’. So, where’s that?”

He laughed, “Portland, man.”

Djimet proceeded to tell me about his work trying to mediate between refugee communities that can’t stand each other (think Croat vs. Serb). He is trying to settle differences between diverse immigrant groups from eastern Europe who all want to open a community center. Initially, some people wanted to call it the “Slavic Center”, which pissed off a variety of nationalities. It was the Ukrainians versus the Russians, versus the Romanians, et cetera. There were too many people still invested in the hatreds of the homeland.

I told Djimet, “Sometimes you just have to wait until that first generation is dead.”

He laughed again. “Maybe so. Maybe so.”

Senay: He sat with me at the very last plenary session. He is from the D.C. area. I do not know his ethnic background, and I don’t really care. I’m not sure what he does. It doesn’t matter. I do know that he cares about immigrants, and I do know that he doesn’t buy into all the political bullshit. He was a little miffed by the fact that a number of speakers talked like everybody in the room was a Democrat. He’s not. Nor am I. He has a job to do, and he will work with anybody who wants to help immigrants. The man seemed very pragmatic, and very real. I liked him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

December 9th, 2018

The National Immigrant Integration Conference (NIIC) loved plenary sessions. During the course of the conference, there were three plenary sessions a day in the main ballroom of the Marriott. The tables in the ballroom were full of people from all over the country. These meetings leaned heavily on motivational speakers and left wing rhetoric. Lots of talk about “solidarity” and “justice” and “being progressive”. Lots of people sitting at their tables and checking their smart phones while the speakers rambled on and on. In fairness, many of the people who addressed the assembled guests actually had worthwhile things to say. It’s just that there were a few too many long-winded rabble-rousers who also had access to microphones.

One of the plenary sessions was titled: “The Women’s Wave: Women’s Leadership, Immigrants, Refugees, and our Shared Vision”. That seemed to be a reasonable topic for a full session, seeing as most of the work regarding immigrant rights is being done by women. The panel was made up of women: politicians, lawyers, or leaders of non-profits. Then there was also Dr, Leana Wen, who is the President of the Planned Parenthood Foundation. So, why was she there? What does Planned Parenthood have to do with immigrant rights?

I’m not entirely sure how to answer those two questions. Dr. Wen is an immigrant from Shanghai, China. Her life is a classic immigrant success story. She was clearly a hero to many of the people in the audience. To me she looked out of place. The connection between reproductive rights and immigrant rights seems a bit tenuous, except for the fact that it’s all about “rights”.

It made me think about the fact the Planned Parenthood has been very active and visible with marches and demonstrations organized by Voces de la Frontera here in Milwaukee. There is obviously some kind of synergy, but I don’t know exactly what it is.

I also thought about the fact that I knew almost nothing about Planned Parenthood. Ever since I was a teenager, I had heard homilies in church railing against the organization because it provides abortions. Years ago, I had gone to at least one demonstration against Planned Parenthood. In all that time, I never once spoke to anybody who actually worked at Planned Parenthood. I decided that now was the time to do that.

In the hall outside of the main ballroom were rows of tables used by various organizations that help immigrants. Planned Parenthood had its own table with pamphlets and t-shirts and bumper stickers. Oddly enough, two tables away were people from the Catholic Legal Immigration Network. I didn’t notice any discomfort or awkwardness on the part of the members of either group.

After one of the break out sessions, I walked past the tables and I noticed a young Latina at the Planned Parenthood booth. I walked up to her and she greeted me.

I started out cautiously,

“Hi, I have some questions about what you folks do. Ummm, I’m not quite sure how to how to go about this…”

The Latina nodded encouragingly.

I continued, “Okay, I’m Catholic, and I actually care about it. Can you explain to me what you do for people, especially immigrants?”

The young lady said, “We provide medical services for women who cannot get them elsewhere. Maybe it’s because of money or status or because they are afraid to talk to other doctors about reproductive issues. For instance, in my culture, it is very difficult for a woman to discuss sexual matters.”

I said, “You know that the Church demonizes this organization every day, all day?”

She nodded, as if to say, “Yeah, and…?”

Then she said, “I’m Catholic. I am a person of faith. I believe that we are helping those who really need help. We do cancer screenings. We do a lot of preventive medicine and we give out a great deal of information. If the patients want, we talk to them about contraception. I let patients know that they have the option of an abortion.”

I winced a little at that.

I asked her, “So, do you fill a niche that is not filled by any other organization?”

She nodded. “We help the people who have nowhere else to go. We don’t worry about insurance. We don’t ask if they are documented. We don’t judge.”

I had to admire the woman’s sincerity. She is doing what she believes to be right. The abortion thing bothers me, but that’s part of their deal.

What I really wonder is this: Does the Catholic Church offer the services that Planned Parenthood does (excluding contraception and abortion)? Does the Church do anything to meet the medical needs of the poor and outcast? Could the Church fill the gap that is currently filled by Planned Parenthood? Could the Church provide reproductive healthcare in a way that is not judgmental?

The Catholic church spends untold amounts of time and energy fighting against abortion, and I think that it should. However, it also needs to offer an alternative to the immigrants and others who depend so much on the services of Planned Parenthood. If the Church is going to damn Planned Parenthood, then it needs to provide a choice.

It does no good simply to be against something.

 

 

December 9th,2018

Sokthea ate breakfast with me. I had arrived at the immigration conference early, but then I arrive at everything early. Sokthea got there early too. We picked up the programs for the session, and then we found ourselves a table in the meeting room. We were alone there for a while. We ate and talked.

Sokthea Phay is a young man; tall, thin, and passionate. He glows with enthusiasm. He works for as the community operations director at the YMCA in Long Beach, California. He’s a snappy dresser. During the conference, he almost always wore a suit and tie. His appearance was in stark contrast to my own. If I can’t go somewhere in jeans and a sweatshirt, I don’t go.

Sokthea’s family is originally from Cambodia. He came to America with his one-year-old son, and his very pregnant wife in 2013. Jokthea came to this country with no assets. He did have a sponsor, but that was all. Since his arrival, Jokthea has learned English, and found a good position that allows him to help new immigrants at the YMCA (he originally worked with the “Y” when he lived in Cambodia). He has a thick accent, but otherwise his English is as good as mine, if not better.

Sokthea likes to talk, but he also takes time to listen. He carefully heard my story, and he seemed genuinely interested in me as a person. It is rare for someone, especially a stranger, to do that. But he did. In the time it took us to eat breakfast, we had become friends. I found that to be remarkable.

Later in the day, there was a panel discussion about how to help people who face detention and deportation. In particular, the conversation revolved around finding lawyers for these immigrants, and finding the money to pay for lawyers. Once the panelists were done speaking, there a brief period of time for asking questions.

Jokthea eagerly stood up to ask a question. He was a bit closer to the panel than I was, so I was looking at his back while he talked to the panelists. I couldn’t see his facial expression as he spoke.

Jokthea came to his question in a roundabout sort of way. He said,

“We have been talking about helping the detainees. That is good, but there are other people also involved. The families. When a person is detained or deported, the children have to no parent. Then the grandparent must be the parent and raise the children. Sometimes, the grandparents come from Cambodia after the genocide. They have PTSD, or maybe dementia. They cannot work. Sometimes, they get evicted, because they cannot pay rent. Then who cares for the children?”

His voice cracked, and I could see an involuntary shudder in Jokthea’s back and shoulders.

“At the “Y” we try to buy Christmas gifts for these children with no parents. They have nobody.”

Jokthea abruptly stopped speaking. His breathing became labored. I could see him remove his glasses and wipe his eyes.

He breathed deeply and spoke again, “What do we do for the families?”

Jokthea collapsed into the chair next to me, still facing away. I squeezed his shoulder gently. He turned and offered me his hand. Then he looked at the panelists again in silence.

The program ended a few minutes later. He turned to look at me. There was pain in his face. Something cut him to his very core.

I laid my hand on his chest, on the left side. I told him,

“You have a good heart.”

He nodded with wet, glistening eyes.

I said, “You know…you said more in your silence than you did with your words.”

He nodded again.

We hugged.

 

I generally do no provide links to other media. However, Sokthea has a video that rocks.

 

December 5th, 2018

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” – William Faulkner

I walked along the bike path today after Karin and I had coffee with a friend. The walk home from Panera is about four miles, so I had plenty of time to think. That could be both good and bad. I tend to over-analyze everything. In fact, I am probably doing that now. In any case, I wandered through my memories as I wandered past the bare trees and withered marsh plants that border the edges of the bike path.

Memories are funny things. They don’t necessarily correspond with any kind of objective reality, if there even is any kind of objective reality. Memories tend to highlight only certain aspects of events that happened in the past, and disregard the other parts of those moments in time. My memories seem particularly fuzzy on the details. I do not remember the facts of events as clearly as I remember my feelings when the events occurred. I would be a terrible historian. I often confuse dates and times and all of the minutiae that are a part of my life. But the feelings…those I recall in an intense, visceral, and non-verbal way. The feelings come to me unbidden and overwhelm me.

A Zen friend wrote to me recently concerning my father’s funeral. She wrote:

“As you know, our dead tend to crop up into our present, no matter how far in the past they lived. ‘Past’ is just a human idea, a concept, and we are taught to let go of our conceptual thinking. So, no past. It’s with us now. They are with us now. Like it or not.”

In some ways, my friend agrees with Faulkner. The past is not past, because it is part of the now. Sometimes in Zen, people say glibly that the past no longer exists, so we should not dwell there. We should be totally in the here and now. It is true that yesterday is gone forever, and I can do nothing to change it. However, yesterday still affects today. The events of the past may be gone, but they echo in the present. I can hear and feel the echoes.

Many times, I have spoken with our son, Hans, about his experiences in the latest Iraqi War. He has often made an odd comment about his time there. He has told me that he has always been good with machine guns (and other weapons), and that it is because he is a German. That remark seems bizarre, but then I remember that his maternal grandfather was in the Luftwaffe, and that this man fought in Russia during WWII. Hans harks back to those days, maybe unconsciously. All of that happened decades ago, but it comes roaring into the now. As my friend noted, “Our dead tend to crop up in the present”. They do so in strange ways. Sometimes these intrusions are subtle. Sometimes not.

It is tempting to say things like, “Every day is a new day!”, or “This is the first day of the rest of your life!” The implication is that a person can start afresh, that each day is a clean slate. Not. It is true that I can do things different today than I did yesterday. However, I carry the burden of my history even in a new day. The past comes to me in my memories and in my DNA.

I am part of a continuum. I am just a single note in an endless song. The song is not complete without me, but I am only a tiny part of it.