On My Mind

Please, Please Don’t Make Me Think!!

/ twaldron2014 / 3 Comments

dexmedia

 

From time to time, I return to the high school where I spent most of my adult life, filling in as a substitute teacher for friends of mine. Having taught freshmen during the last year before my retirement, there is still one cluster of students who know me as a “regular teacher” and they are all now seniors, getting ready to graduate. For the past week, I have been substituting for a teacher who has mostly seniors, and I’ve been re-united with many of my former kids.

It was during some slack time in one of those classes that Luisa, one of my former freshmen, asked if she could do a brief interview with me for an assignment she was trying to complete for her psychology class. She had three questions that she had to ask of someone younger than her, someone older than her, and someone who was of “post-retirement” age. She laughed when I said, “That’s a nice way of saying that I’m the old person of the group.”

It would have been much easier if I had been inclined to give glib, easy answers, but each question hit me as being tough and thought provoking.

Question 1. “What has been the best age in your experience?”

I immediately assumed she was talking about “best decade” as opposed to “best year” and I found myself torn. I had six decades to choose from. I discounted the first two, eventually narrowing it down to either my 20’s or my 60’s (although I’m only two years in). These were/are decades where I have felt the greatest personal freedom, especially freedom from responsibility. I have always taken my responsibilities as a husband, a dad, and a teacher very seriously, but now, when I see a responsibility heading my way, I duck and hide and hope someone else will get stuck with it. I am both highly responsible and responsibility-averse at the same time.

After some thought, I settled on my 20’s. On the one hand, I had less money; on the other hand, I had many fewer aches and pains. I had the energy and enthusiasm of youth and was in the midst of finishing college and beginning a new career. Most especially, though, I remember those years as the long honeymoon of my now 40-year marriage. Married at 21 to a girl I had loved since high school, I’m sure those years are hazed with a golden glow of nostalgia, but for me they were a time of being young and free and in love. As we set up our first home together, a two-bedroom duplex, we worked at blending our different images of what “home” looked like and started to learn what it really meant to be partners. We learned how to have fights. Best of all, we learned how to make up. We could spend lazy hours together on a Sunday afternoon with nothing but each other’s company and feel utterly fulfilled. I remember watching her stand at the bedroom mirror, brushing her long, black hair in the evening, marveling at her beauty and at my good luck in having found her.

That decade was capped off with the birth of our son Nico, and the exciting, demanding, and immensely fulfilling beginnings of parenthood.

Question 2. “What age do you consider “old”?”

Ouch. The face I see in the mirror every morning says that I am old. Scrolling back to 1953 on my laptop whenever I have to record my birth date for some government form is certainly an eye-opener as decade after decade slips past. The constant aches, the more frequent doctor visits, the amount of time needed to maintain a body that once seemed to take care of itself all scream “OLD, OLD, OLD!”

But given all of that, I don’t FEEL old. And I am around OLD a lot. My mother resides in a board-and-care home, a residential facility that can house no more than 6 residents, all of whom need 24-hour attention. The oldest resident there is now 99 years old and until just recently was as spry and sharp as could be. He is my hero. My mother clocks in at 92 years of age, placed in this home due to her growing dementia and lack of mobility. I visit nearly every day, at least for a while, and doing so for the last three years is beginning to age me a bit, I think. Every day, I’m reminded of what the ravages of age can do no matter how hard one might try to fend them off.

It was these many visits that informed my answer to Luisa about what I considered to be old. I told her I could not pinpoint a particular year. For me, it seems that there will come a time when I start to feel that my body is beginning to rob me of my ability to be active in the way that I want to be, the way I am now.

I’m no Stephen Hawking. I don’t expect to be heroic as age or disease begins to chip away at my well-being. I expect to be pretty pissed off about it and to rage a little against the dying of the light. I am just happy that I am not there yet.

Question 3. What is the most important life lesson that you have learned?

 “Is Your Love Enough? Or Can You Love Some More?”

Singer-Songwriter Michael Franti reels off these and other rhetorical questions in his song, “Is Love Enough?” I hate rhetorical questions. There are enough things in my life for which I have no answers. I don’t need more.

Man, where do I even start? I said it poorly to Luisa at the time, but essentially what I wanted to say was that I now knew that I needed to learn to love—more freely, more completely, more vulnerably, more fearlessly. I was raised in a family where we never actually talked about love, didn’t even use the word with each other that I can remember. I don’t think it was until my daughter moved away from home that I got trained in ending a conversation with the words “I love you” because she kind of insisted on it. In my own relationship I have always struggled to be demonstrative and, instead, have hoped that actions would show the love I felt. It is not enough; I know that now.

I believe now, that meaningful human connection may be the most critical element of happiness, and yet these relationships seem fraught with land mines to me. Families are complicated; friendships are complicated; I mean, people are just fucking complicated.

But, I do love the comfort of my family, where affection comes almost unconditionally and instantaneously. Outside of my family, I think I may have only said the words “I love you” to three people in all of these years, and in every case I feared I had said something I shouldn’t, revealed too much, invited an unwelcome response. Why am I so afraid? Is it really that hard to love? To claim a feeling that I know that I have?

On my final day as a teacher, the staff gathered together, as we do every year to honor retirees. The principal said nice things and gave out gifts and awards. Three of us were retiring that year and I ended up going last. The first two wept as they addressed our colleagues and there were tears all around. I didn’t get it. I mean I did, but I didn’t. And I said so. I told them that I could not be happier at this moment, and I hoped that they were all happy for me. I had had a wonderful career and was getting the chance to retire and experience a whole new life. I told them that especially in my final years I had come to love, yes love, the students that I taught. The kids had given me so much love and affection and support that it was easy to forgive their occasional transgressions and bursts of immaturity.

As the ceremony ended, I could hear the skeptics. “Love my kids? I’m not there yet!” I overheard one teacher say. I hope she gets “there.”

Three supposedly simple questions. Just another assignment for a kid (a really great kid), one more occasion for my brain to ache, for my mind to explode.

 

 

 

I Like Myself Just The Way I Am–Except For This One Thing

/ twaldron2014 / 1 Comment

willpower

I imagine that the issue of New Year’s resolutions has been blogged to death and dropping another on you after February 1 is probably bad form, but I have my reasons.

The delay was due in part to the lingering effects of a bad cold and severe case of post-traumatic holiday syndrome. I was literally paralyzed for a week once the dust settled trying to sort through my feelings about this time of celebration and all of its attendant disappointments, unfulfilled expectations, guilt, and family drama. Don’t get me wrong, there were some very nice moments, and it’s always lovely to get to spend time with my adult children, but it was about one week into January when I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath since November.

But I smugly began the new year with a leg up on most “resolvers,” those who make resolutions that they will not only not fulfill but if asked a year later won’t even remember what they resolved in the first place!

The remembering has never been a problem for me because I’ve had the same three resolutions for years: exercise consistently, lose some weight, write more. It just so happens that I achieved all of those goals this past year for the very first time. It is a rare day that goes by that I don’t get out for my 3-mile walk, or hit the gym for a swim, or spend an hour doing yoga. A direct result has been that I have dropped about 8 pounds, regained a notch on my belt and now fit into some clothes that I was about ready to donate so they would not spend all of their time taunting me from the depths of the closet. Then, beginning this blog in March provided the inspiration to produce 25,000 words, give or take, neatly packaged into 20 distinct articles.

The most shocking part for me about the writing is that I actually have readers, to whom I am grateful beyond belief. Thanks to the info that WordPress keeps, I even know where in the world my readers are primarily located. It turns out that there is group of crazy Brazilians who frequently read my stuff. And I want to know who you people are so please, drop me a comment and let me know why you don’t have something better to do than follow this blog!

However, no matter the self-righteousness that I feel I have earned over the past year, I also feel compelled to tell you that I do have a resolution for 2015. It’s a secret. Please don’t tell anyone about it. I am not confident at all that I will make a dent in this one.

beers

Truth be told, I like to drink beer. I like to drink more beer, more often than some of my relations, my doctors, and conventional wisdom think is appropriate. Since it gives me pleasure, I know instinctively that it must be bad for me and that I should cut back. Cutting back, I have found, is hard. In fact, I suspect I would have better luck giving up alcohol altogether than to try to be consistently moderate. Being moderate just sucks. However, cutting back is my resolution for 2015.

Let’s face it. Medically, it makes all the sense in the world to reduce my alcohol consumption. Anything that can eventually destroy my liver is a bad thing. However, I have gotten very mixed signals from my doctors when we have talked about this. My GP suggests “just one or two per night” but then warns me not to cut it out altogether because it could adversely affect my blood pressure. My therapist said to quit worrying about it, that at the level I was drinking if I were to cut off a couple years of my life they’d be the worst couple of years of my life anyway (I like him). A cardiologist I met with gave me a fish-eyed look and said “one.” He looked like a man who took pleasure in taking away the pleasures of other and instinctively I did not trust him. One final health professional confided in me that actually 3 or 4 drinks is now considered “moderate” but that no doctor will actually tell that to his patients (I like him).

So I need an additional motivation. Not wanting to be a slender guy with a prodigious beer belly is certainly one of them. At 150 calories per 12 oz bottle of premium beer, consuming an extra 300 or so calories per night must mean I’m in a constant battle to maintain my weight, right? But, in fact, I’m not. I’m very conscientious about my diet and I exercise religiously. As I have looked for beer substitutes, something to sip on that will be satisfying, tasty, but not alcoholic, I discovered that virtually all of them have just as many calories and many throw in the evils of processed sugar and caffeine. If it’s not water, it’s not a good trade-off. Also when I have given up beer for a week at a time and maintained all of my other good habits, I expect the pounds to just absolutely fall off of me. I want to see my weight drop at least one pound a day to compensate for the pain of abstinence. It just doesn’t seem to work that way.

And there is the WTF factor. I do not live each day to the fullest and in fact, I don’t think anyone actually does. Many days are full of trips to Target and the dry cleaners. Others to grocery shopping, cleaning and paying bills. It’s just life, and I’ve been lucky to have enjoyed an awfully good one for 62 years. On my way to the sports section, I can’t help but glance at the obituaries and take ghoulish pleasure in the growing numbers of complete strangers that I have outlived.

Sadly, I have also lost former students, friends, and colleagues who died far too young, taken by accident and disease. I’ve seen young friends felled by stroke and brain tumors. Being aware of life’s capriciousness has not exactly made me fatalistic, but what the fuck? Knowing that I can get taken down by some kind of heinous disease at any moment, I’m less inclined to follow the arbitrary rules of healthy beer consumption. Besides, it tastes good—really good.

And, it feels good to be a little bit bad. I was an altar boy as a young man, a fanatic rule-follower. I don’t think I knowingly broke a rule until I was 34. I am the guy who will stop for a red light at a crossroads in the middle of the desert at three in the morning, waiting for the light to turn green. To my great frustration, I will not allow myself to commit adultery even in my in my dreams (“Gosh, sorry, ma’am. I’m awfully flattered, but it just wouldn’t be right, me being married and all. I hope you can understand”). An extra beer at night feels like a small revolution, a salute to independence, a raised middle finger to all of the conventions I have followed for so long.

And there is an illusory effect that beer has on me that all experiences are enhanced by drinking. Television is better, music is more profound, the book I’m reading is more moving when accompanied with my favorite IPA. I am absolutely certain that the sunset is more vivid, the moonrise more spectacular, and that the fire is warmer and more captivating sitting outside by my outdoor firepit welcoming the night with a cold one. Likewise, when writing, the words seem flow more easily, my mind races with ideas, synapses are firing that I didn’t know existed, and at times I’m convinced I’m pouring out nothing but brilliance as I sip on my drink. This is before I humbly proofread my work the next day in the very sober light of the following morning.

These are all of the reasons that I will fail miserably with my one resolution for 2015. Here is the reason I will succeed.

I like to feel good when I wake up in the morning. I like to wake up and lie in bed planning out my day without a dull headache, a hazy memory, and a rumbling stomach. When I get up in the morning after a non-drinking night, I feel cleansed and righteous. I feel the same way I used to walking out of the confessional as a youngster knowing that my sins (which were nothing close to sins at all) had all been washed away. I feel more alert and have more energy as my day begins with that glow of well-being filling my soul.

We will see, in 11 months, if that is enough to turn the course of a deeply-rooted habit–a habit I really enjoy. Not giving it up, mind you. Just cutting back.

 

 

Cool People Need Not Apply

/ twaldron2014 / 1 Comment

Tom

 

Yes, by posting my ninth-grade yearbook picture, a pic I usually keep under lock and key, I’m taking one for the team—the team of all of you who hate any pictures of yourself from high school. This is not a look I would wish on anyone, especially a young high-schooler hoping for some degree of acceptance and popularity.

I did not enter high school thinking of myself as a nerd, but I certainly had all the essential elements of what I now consider to be an outdated definition of nerd-ity. There was no tape on my glasses, and even I knew better than to use a pocket protector (after all, that’s why I kept a pencil box handy), but my social awkwardness, painful lack of self-assurance, and absence of athletic ability led me to focus on the only thing I was good at—academics. Clearly, in the strict stratification of high school society, I had “nerd” written all over me (see picture above).

I attended Saint Augustine High School, an all-boys Catholic school in San Diego, and sitting in freshman orientation, I felt incredibly alone because there were boys from all over the county, but very few from my small parochial school. I immediately latched on to the first person who was nice to me, Ralph, a friend I kept for exactly as long as it took me to make several new friends and to realize that (if possible) Ralph was actually even less cool than I was (Sorry Ralph, I still feel bad about that one).

I eventually escaped high school with some sense that I had outgrown the “nerd” label. By the end, I had a solid and varied friend group, was near the top of the class, had become co-editor of the school newspaper, and become active in drama (OK, I know, that one is a toss-up).

Also, one of the men I worked with at the grocery store where I had a part-time job took an interest in me and helped me improve my wardrobe (no small task during the early 70’s), feel more confident around women, and introduce me to the world of hair stylists which helped me to get beyond the slicked-down Vitalis look that I had cultivated as a ninth-grader. Best of all was a conversion to contact lenses my junior year, and my purchase of a 1968 metallic blue Mustang during my senior year, a car that remains the coolest vehicle I have ever owned.

While none of these improvements gained me entrance to the “cool kids club” on campus, I did leave high school with good memories, some very good friends, and a sense of confidence about the future.

Years later, as I began teaching, I felt a special kinship to kids who felt isolated or awkward and it was clear that the term “nerd” still carried a heavy stigma. But, something happened as the years went by. Just as in The Princess Bride when Inigo Montoya has to chide the evil Vizzini over his repeated use of the word “Inconceivable!”, respectfully pointing out, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means,” the word “nerd” began to have a much more positive connotation.

This elevation of word in our language has precedent. In the 1300’s the word “nice” used to mean “simple,” or “ignorant.” To be “fond” meant to be “foolish.” Likewise words can decline and develop a more negative sense. Today’s “villain” (a la Voldemort, Moriarity, or Dick Cheney) simply meant “servant” long ago.

I’m not sure when the tide began to change, although it seems to me that it had something to do with, of all things, Harry Potter. There may have been precursors, of course, but this book series created such a cult among all ages that it unleashed midnight book releases, midnight movie showings, kids and adults showing up to both dressed in full costume—a total identification with the characters, the setting, and the story. There was something about the immersion in a pop culture phenomenon that allowed kids (and adults) to proclaim themselves as “Harry Potter nerds” with a sense of pride, not a sense of shame.

Toward the end of my career in the classroom, increasingly kids began to self-identify as “nerds,” sometimes with a grimace and a shrug, but more often with a laugh, often surrounded by a gaggle of other fellow nerds—happy, well-adjusted, athletic, and popular. After all, who wouldn’t want to be around people who are passionate, knowledgeable, and involved in either singular or multiple pursuits?

The title now seems much more associated with people who have a passionate dedication to something. While often, these passions are directed at icons of pop culture (i.e. Game of Thrones, Marvel Comic films, Star Trek, musicians) it also bleeds into much more mainstream pursuits. I mean, have you ever gotten stuck with someone who is desperate to explain to you just how well his/her fantasy football team is doing?

As a young person, being cool must be exhausting. There seems to be a slavish adherence to both a dress and behavioral code. One has to pretend to be friends with all the clan members while quietly forming strategic alliances and living with the notion that with just one slip, you can be voted off the island, cut off as someone who “used to be cool.”

I had to watch Cameron Crowe’s 2000 film, Almost Famous, at least 8 times before I started to notice how important it was for everyone to be considered cool. They were all trying so hard, and even the members of the fictitious band, Stillwater, were plagued by insecurity about how they were perceived, begging William (Patrick Fugit) the teenaged rock critic, “Just make us look cool, man.” Later William’s mentor, Lester Bangs (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) wisely counsels him, “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you are uncool.”

It strikes me that being cool is just too much work. Give me nerd-dom any day. All one has to do is go out and buy a new action figure for her collection, stay at home on a nice day and watch “The Hunger Games” for the tenth time, don’t let a single summer go by without re-reading the Harry Potter books—all of them. Yes, it’s just fine to spend three valuable hours working out trades for your fantasy football team. Just please don’t bother me during the baseball season from 7AM to 8 AM while I’m having my coffee and carefully reading and analyzing the box scores from the night before. It’s important work. Someone has to do it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking (…and walking, and walking some more)

/ twaldron2014 / 6 Comments

About 10 weeks ago, I became a man on a mission. I decided, come rain or shine (an easy promise given that it rains about 3 teaspoons a year here in San Diego), I would take a vigorous walk for a full hour each day. It turns out that at the pace I walk, I end up putting in a bit over 3 miles in that hour.

I became motivated by a visit to a cardiologist after I was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation, or A-fib, which means that occasionally (turns out to be very occasionally) I get rapid and irregular heartbeats. It’s one of those conditions where the doctor tries to be reassuring and threatening at the same time. “Lots of people have it, and we’re not sure what causes it exactly, and by itself it’s not particularly harmful, except that it could possibly cause a stroke that could kill you.”

Huh. Well one symptom it causes is that I’m suddenly aware that there are dozens of TV commercials for medications for people with A-fib (mostly blood thinners) that show people my age being happy, healthy, and active while the voice-over cheerfully recounts the dangers of A-fib and the equally damaging potential side effects of the wonder drug they are hawking. I never noticed these ads before.

So, to stop the stroke that I might get if I continue to have fits of A-fib which might or might not happen, doc wants me to reduce caffeine intake (to 8 ounces daily), my beer consumption to no more than one a day, and to increase exercise.

Eight ounces of coffee is not even enough to start my heart in the morning. I have a 20 ounce cup of coffee from Starbucks every morning and 0 caffeine the rest of the day. To ease into the reduction, I now ask for “room for crème” when they remember to ask. I figure that cuts two to three ounces. Hey, it’s a start. I’ve cut my beer consumption by about 20%, and I figure I’ll get to his limit around the time it just becomes too hard to get out of my chair to get a second one in the evening.

So as much as I tend to respect authority figures, I refuse to let them take away my reasons for living. To paraphrase Mark Twain, it’s important to cultivate some bad habits so you’ve got something to give up when you contract something really serious.

However, I have embraced “the walk.” It is one of my favorite times of the day. Because I have a high tolerance for boredom, I take virtually the same walk every day. I drop down from my street into a nearby neighborhood and fall into a loop that my wife and I discovered years ago, and make that circuit five times. I return home sweaty and feeling self-righteous. It is often the hour that goes by the fastest every day.

There are a multitude of things that keep it from being the “same walk every day.” Knowing that the sidewalk and street is banked, I decided one day to reverse course after three laps and walk the route in the opposite way. I discovered it was (for a while) an entirely different walk! Nothing looked the same. All of my familiar markers were gone. I nearly missed one of the turns because everything looked so different.

And then there are the people.

I have walked as early as 4:30 AM (insomnia is a great way to get an early start) and as late as 10 PM and everywhere in between, and I’ve discovered my route has patterns and rhythms that are as compulsive as I am. At that early morning hour, the soul of the street is dead. I was completely alone for a full hour and missed the camaraderie of the people I’ve come to know.

I’ve begun to feel like the unofficial mayor of “the loop.” People I don’t know smile and wave at me as they drive by. A nice, retired couple that I have spoken with several times asked if I’d “keep an eye on the house” for them when they were leaving on a long RV vacation. I helped calm some commotion at one end of the street when a lady discovered a snake peeking its head from a lawn drain and was frantically keeping people away. I took a look at it and reassured her it was a harmless king snake and nothing to worry about (sure hope I was right). I’ve stopped to help a lady load up a file cabinet into her truck and then guided someone who was having some trouble parallel parking a gigantic truck.

Over time, some individuals are becoming more distinct to me. Since summer hit, I miss the harried parents who are stuffing their children into the car to get them to school. The kids are amazingly friendly and enjoy greeting me and clearly have not been taught about the dangers of talking to strange men. If I walk a little later in the morning, I am likely to see Spring Valley Dude emerge, usually on his phone, dressed only in a swimsuit with long scraggly hair smoking a cigarette, trying to get over his hangover from the night before. I always stop to trade gardening tips with Tera if she is out working in the front yard vegetable garden that she and her husband built, creating 6 raised beds for a wonderful growing space. I sometimes cross the street if I see this young, intense walker headed my way. He moves very slowly and wears way too much clothing for the hot weather we are in, and smokes while he walks. I’m pretty sure he is a serial killer.

I’m sure in another 5 or 6 months, I’ll start to get bored and either change the route or start having to drive somewhere to vary my routine. However, I’m terribly habitual and in this case my habit is making me healthier. Besides, my people need me. I have to keep an eye on things for them, help them park, save them from snakes, and keep an eye out for serial killers. I take my responsibilities seriously, especially the ones I don’t really have.

“Spiritual, Not Religious”–Some Second Thoughts

/ twaldron2014 / 3 Comments

I have only recently even begun to think about a spiritual life.  I’m not sure why I’m spending time on it now.  I’m not near death (as far as I know) and I don’t intend to join a monastery any time soon.  My interest has just sprung from my recent retirement and about the struggles people face when their lives are no longer defined by work.  Since I have, for many years, struggled to find happiness and freedom from anxiety, I began to think that the subjects of spirituality and a search for meaning might be intertwined.

I realized even as I was writing my first post, Finding Meaning, that I had bitten off more that I could chew.  I knew I was glossing over my own thoughts and experiences with religion and perhaps sounding dismissive of the beliefs of others. So, I felt that maybe I had better take a second shot at some of the concepts I mentioned and see if I could clarify them, for myself if for no one else.

I made the comment that “I find it amusing to hear people say that they are “spiritual” but not “religious.”’  The kind of person who I was thinking of was one who had pretty much given up on religion, but still thought of themselves as a believer in God and afterlife, in a sort of casual, uncommitted way.  I have been around, or listened to, or read about multitudes of people who claim to be devoutly religious but whose lives seem to be completely devoid of any kind of spirituality. Much more troubling are those who seem to use religion as a club for intolerance, exclusion, and the promulgation of hatred.

I began to work on a personal definition of spirituality and certain elements kept feeling right.  I feel that a spiritual person is one who leads an ethical life, characterized by compassion, kindness, and tolerance.  I believe, now, that a spiritual person must also be dedicated to the practice and study of something–to cultivate a passion that may be entirely secular–and must find communion with others.

When I practice yoga, I feel a part of something bigger than myself.  I like going to yoga class, but when I recently began concentrating on daily exercises at home, I started to feel what it meant to devote myself to the practice of yoga, seeking a kind of mindful elevation in concert with physical movement.  I think that to be truly spiritual, I have to pursue and study that mindful elevation and try to gain a greater constancy so that this mindfulness begins to permeate my thought and existence. Others undoubtedly find the same mindfulness through meditation, prayer, chanting and other religious exercises.  However, I believe there is an element of spirituality in anyone who pursues a practice with passion, be it rock climbing, quilting, writing, running, fishing, hiking.  If the practice elevates, and in a way purifies our minds, allows us to let the dross of trivial life fall away, then I think we have begun to approach that sense of spirituality that is thought to be reserved for those who practice a specific doctrine.

I also believe that spirituality involves community.  People with a passion, those who study and practice and dedicate themselves to mindfulness, are bound to seek out others who are likewise inclined.  As a gardener, I love meeting and swapping stories with other gardeners–experts and beginners alike.  My guitar class brings me together with other practitioners and lovers of music.  Sure there are a few who like to show off, but most are humble and eager to engage with others.  Hiking class reunites me with people who love the outdoors and who almost universally are veteran travelers.  During our walks, we spin tales of our adventures and it brings me back to a time when I could hike the Sierras with a 50-pound pack on my back every summer with my buddies.

I suppose that a person could find happiness and a sense of spirituality without the communion with others, but for me it provides a way to listen to the stories of others and learn.  As I become more expert, I find that others seek me out and I begin to make new connections.  I am inspired by others to continue my practice and strive to be more that I am right now.  I am not a “joiner”.  It is hard for me.  But I am coming to recognize that I must continue to become a part of new and changing communities if I am going to find meaning and happiness.

So, this is the path that I am on right now.  The religious one is closed for the time being.  I cannot be comforted by the idea that horrible things happen “for a reason” or that tragedies can be explained away as “part of God’s plan.”  Sometimes I wish that I could.  There was a time when that would have been easy.  Now, I have to find my own way.

Rock Star

/ twaldron2014 / Leave a comment

 

DMB

I told a group of students in a baccalaureate speech that I was asked to give, that I had a dream one day that I would be called out from off-stage at a Dave Matthews Band concert to join the group as a guest guitarist, where I would get to jam with one of my musical heroes. I also told them that I accepted the reality that maybe if I worked really hard, I might get to practice with one of the local bands around San Diego who I’ve come to know or maybe perform protest songs at my old high school when the American history course starts covering the 60’s and 70’s.  Maybe I’d get good enough to play some Christmas songs during the holidays for the family or get a few Mexican tunes under my belt so that I can play along with my wife’s cousin, Felipe, who is always the hit of the party.

The truth is, I’ve only been taking lessons off and on for the last 5 years or so, with lots of gaps.  I am indifferent practicer, even with all of the time I have available in my retirement.  I avoid the accusing stares coming from my unused guitar as it sits there in the family room waiting for me, making me feel guilty.  Now and then I’ll pick it up and pretty soon find myself lost in making my way through a little bit of James Taylor, or Jackson Browne, or The Band.  I practice some scales and go through my blues progressions and finish up feeling fresh and clean, sort of like I used to when I’d finally get myself to confession and feel relieved of all of my sins.

The problem is that starting into music in my post-middle age years is really hard.  With no real musical background, any signs of improvement are incredibly slow.  Even when I practice more regularly, I can feel deflated by a perceived lack of progress. And I’ve learned terrible things about myself musically.  I’ve discovered that my vocal range is quite limited and that when I do sing, I make small children cry.  I’ve also discovered that I simply cannot play and sing at the same time.  I thought it would be easy, but as soon as I start groaning out the lyrics, my hands forget all about strum patterns and chord progressions, my left hand flies all over the fret board, and the song screeches to a halt.

All of that was true until two weeks ago.  After a three-week absence I returned to my Monday night, adult education intermediate group guitar class.  It is a friendly bunch of mostly guys, all of who will profess to be terrible but some of whom are actually pretty talented musicians.  I’m definitely in the bottom third, talent-wise.  Our instructor, Bill, is friendly and enthusiastic and disorganized and never quite sure what he wants to do with us.  We might spend half the class going through some music theory and then he’ll take us through a comfortable version of “Let it Be” that we all play together and when it’s done he will always declare, “You guys sound really good!”

But two weeks ago, he decided we needed to get into groups and required each group chose a song and gave us 40 minutes to rehearse, knowing that we would have to perform it for the class during the last 15 minutes.  I immediately made for the group forming around one woman who had once said that she was a singer.  We picked the Buffalo Springfield song, “For What It’s Worth” because it was easy and we all had played it before.  Suddenly, Susan, the supposed singer declared she couldn’t sing this song.

Very quickly all the other guys in the group looked down and pretended to be practicing.   No one wanted to sing.  It just so happened that I had been playing around with that song during the week and could vividly remember it, having heard it so many times, and that as we just started practicing the chords, I found myself beginning to channel my inner Stephen Stills and tentatively began to sing.

No one asked me to stop or looked appalled and in fact, they began to follow my lead when I knew I wasn’t getting the timing right or when I knew we had lost our way.  Suddenly, I was the de facto group leader and lead singer.  After a while, once we had worked over the rough spots and run through the song repeatedly, we actually felt we were kinda, sorta ready and it was time to perform.

When it came our time to play we launched into the song and somehow, I lost all self-consciousness and just tried to stay in the song, to hear the song I had lived with for almost 50 years and try to sound a little bit like it.  Before I knew it, we were working through the tricky third verse…

Paranoia strikes deep,

Into your life it will creep,

It starts when you’re always afraid,

Step outta line the man come,

And take you a way…

…and then, before I knew it, we are coming around to the chorus.  We are listening to each other and adjusting, and fixing problems when they come up and doing everything a band actually has to do when they are in the midst of a performance and it felt really good.

…Think it’s time we stop, children, what’s that sound

Everybody looks what’s goin’ down….

We ended there and the members of the Monday night, adult education intermediate group guitar class erupted into applause.  Well, in all honesty, it wasn’t an eruption. It was more the kind of polite applause that class members are sort of required to give to each other.  Bill declared, “You guys sounded really good.  Yeah,” before starting off the next group.

When it was all over, Juan, who after one conversation has decided that we are best friends, came up to me and said, “Tommy, you sing really good, man.” (no one except my 91-year-old mother calls me Tommy).  I deflected his comment with a joke but, in fact, I was floating as I packed up my guitar and walked out to the car.

It wasn’t an appearance with Dave, but I had performed.  I loved it.

Finding Meaning

/ twaldron2014 / 1 Comment

“Atheist” is a word that I have a hard time wrapping my head around.  I don’t know any other way to honestly describe myself, however.

Poor Sister Mario, would be rolling over in her grave to hear it.  She was my seventh and eight grade teacher at a local Catholic school, part of my long and damaging progression through Catholic education.  Abandoning Catholicism was really the beginning.  It started with soccer.

My wife and I were frazzled with juggling work along with two active children and their activities.  Monday through Friday it was work.  Saturday was soccer all day.  Somehow giving up Sunday to dragging the kids to church seemed too much.  We just stopped. It had lost its meaning for us and never had been meaningful to the kids.

But I still FELT Catholic.  We still went on Christmas and Easter.  Then came the abuse scandals and most especially the evidence of the cover-ups. That made me feel alienated, but was not unlike anything else I had seen from any large bureaucracy.  That was followed by their increasing political involvement in politics that, because of abortion, lead them to embrace the Republican party and most especially George W. Bush.  The fact that some bishops encourage priests to deny communion to any supporter of John Kerry in the 2004 election, when evidence was piling up that President Bush had begun a war on false pretenses, had sanctioned torture, rendition, and other acts considered as war crimes by the United Nations and most of the civilized world suddenly made it easy to detach myself from the church.

The final straw was their strident condemnation of the LGBT community.  With so many friends, family members, colleagues, and former students who are gay, I could no longer reconcile myself in any way with their teachings.

I quit.

So what to do about God and religion.  I find it amusing to hear people say that they are “spiritual” but not “religious”.  I hear bits and pieces of spiritual thought that appeals to me, but feel no need or impulse to study them or commit to a doctrine.  I believe that when I die, I will die, cease to exist, eventually be forgotten. It’s OK.  I’ve 60+ years of a good life.  I’ll probably get another 10 or 15 more with any luck.

What gives meaning to me is the stories and the lives of my family and my students.  Their courage through incredible neglect, their resilience, and the love that they share is more than enough.  And then I do what retirees do to fill up the long days.  I read the paper.  I do yoga and walk. I garden and play guitar. Sometimes, I just sit in the sun to read. I enjoy a good beer as often as I can (and more than I should).

I know that I will live on in the memories of my children and that makes me happy.  I know that I have touched the lives of hundreds of students, some of them profoundly, or so they tell me.  I will live on in them. I think, or I hope, they will remember me as someone who loved them unconditionally, who strove to give them a joyful experience in the classroom, who listened when they needed to talk or to cry, who welcomed them growing into adulthood.  I keep hoping one of them will name a child after me, but no one gets named “Tom” anymore.  That is maybe a reach.

But it gives me more than Catholicism ever did. It is enough.