all of the selves we Have ever been
The sunlight was so powerful this morning that the blinds were helpless, and so, they let it in. Though it was early when I awoke to its brilliance, the intensity of the sun’s light gave me the feeling that the day was already deep in progress. The DJ in my head began to spin the old 1971 John Denver Poems, Prayers, and Promises LP record. The song, Sunshine on my Shoulders, snuggled in as a happy earworm throughout the morning: Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy… This morning’s sunlight did, indeed, make me happy. With the recent months of dreary weather and not a single weekend of sunshine, the light in the sky today felt like a gift, the sunshine like a magic eraser wiping away the dreary yesterdays. As I go about the business of the morning, my mind wanders and wonders. I reflect on the story of creation which begins with God saying, “Let there be light.” Perhaps, the Creator intended for the human story to be a happy one. I think of a friend whose aging mother absolutely refused to discuss anything that might have a sad or negative component no matter how important or urgent the matter. As my friend’s caregiving responsibilities increased, I would often check in with her, “How’s your mother?” to which my friend predictably replied, “You know, it’s always 76 degrees and sunny.” It was difficult to get to the truth about serious subjects with her mother—sunny became a frustrating forecast for the daughter, but a nice retirement climate for her mother. I remember summer rains from my youth when the air was heavy and the pavement hot. When it was safe to do so, we were permitted to play outdoors in the rain. It was so much better than running through the sprinkler. During those summer showers, the playground had no boundary lines; we did not have to fight for a turn. The rain was everywhere, there for all of us. We were too young and too happy to have the adult self-consciousness that lays waste to joy by worrying about damaged clothes, frizzy hair, or running mascara. We knew the sun would return, and when it did, we would sit around baking in our bathing suits until we were dry. My father retired to warm and sunny southern California. He often asked about the weather where I lived in Ohio. Dad loved the climate of his California home, but he missed a good thunderstorm. During the final weeks of his life, I sent him a nature tape of a thunderstorm. I think Dad missed the power, the cleansing, and the promise of freshness when a storm passes. The sound and the promise helped Dad to reach the other side, the one on which God said, “Let there be light.” So John Denver’s voice plays on in my head. And yes, it is as true for me as for John Denver: sunshine almost always makes me high.
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Do you remember your first time? The passion of youth? Awakening to new feelings, a new type of energy? I was born in the late 1950s during a very proper time when girls who got pregnant disappeared without a trace. My youth was stained by tears following the assassination of a president. Later, everyone cried again as a man walked on the moon just as the slain, young president had predicted. As I grew into my teen years, propriety descended into chaos as the country became further embroiled in the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights Movement. Some people gathered at peace rallies while others set fire to the streets. Love was free but people weren’t. Protesters shouted, “Down with the establishment!” It was an angry and contentious time. The women’s movement was picking up steam, and young women like me were reading Our Bodies Ourselves. Some of us were planning to marry right after high school graduation, but, for the first time, more of us were taking the SATs and thinking of college. As we tried to understand Watergate and the impeachment of a president, we also lived our high school years trying to understand a new lottery game in which there were no winners. I carried my transistor radio to school so my friends and I could hear the birth dates picked in the draft lottery. First prize was an all-expense-paid trip to Vietnam. The boys I knew were thinking of their futures. Many hoped it would not include Vietnam but maybe a union job at the steel mill where their fathers worked, or college—maybe even Ivy League. They grew their hair long. “Mercy,” grown-ups said. “What’s this world coming to?” I don’t recall adults really talking to us about issues of sex, self-protection, or any of the other important issues of the day. Children were seen and not heard. You went straight from that silent abyss into marriage, college, work, or war. There was a long list of don’ts,” but not much on “how to.” Some words were never uttered out loud, words like pregnant and cancer. Long before text messaging, adults described these conditions using acronyms like PG and CA. We had to learn from what we overheard and try to decipher the code. Despite all that, as teenagers do, we thought we knew everything, and we were passionate about what we did know. Prior to social media, we teens carried an invisible audience around in our heads, always seeking approval from those critical voices. And so that was the setting for my very first time. I faced it excited, passionate and involved even if a bit naïve. I tried to read up on it and get to know the person I chose. I was open about it and discussed it endlessly with my friends who were doing it, too. And so, on a pre-determined day, I looked into the eyes of my chosen one, and I saw myself reflected there which was just as it should be. And then, I did it. I voted. For the first time, I elected a president. The entire process was exhilarating. Perhaps you have lost that lovin’ feeling since the very first time you voted. If so, I would recommend some love sonnets to get you back in the mood. Read The American Spirit by David McCullough. You will fall in love with America and democracy all over again. This time, when you decide to go for it, use protection—educate yourself. You’ll know he or she is the one if you can see yourself reflected in those eyes. Researchers report that gratitude is good for body, mind and soul. I am reminded of this fact every morning when I step into the shower and instinctively say a short, silent prayer of thanksgiving for indoor plumbing and hot water. Is there anything more therapeutic than a hot shower? It soothes the aching body, washes away grime, (and tears), and provides background music for our inner rock stars. I am grateful to live in a place where water is plentiful. As my fingers fly over the keyboard, I think back to high school typing class. It was optional for college-bound students. With all of my years of education since high school, no class has been more valuable. Who could have known? Thank you, Sr. Regina, for the hundreds of practice drills and timed-writings. I’ve often said that life has enough pressure; I don’t need my clothes squeezing me, too. Does anyone? Nothing feels better than coming home from work and leaving the shoes at the door. Oh, the delicious feeling of bare feet on the floor! And slipping into a soft, over-sized t-shirt, or some worn sweat pants? I am certain that’s the uniform they wear in heaven. I am thankful for the way time wears some things out for the better. I love the feeling of soothing warmth, be that from a soft blanket, a cozy fire in the fireplace, or the company of people I love. I am grateful every time I come in from the cold. I am thankful to have grown-up in a time when most of what ailed me could be cured by a tincture of time, soft kisses and cinnamon toast. How lucky was I? I could go on; my well of gratitude is deep. What’s in your well? Time takes its toll on our bodies. The hair thins out. Vision changes. No more driving at night. And what was that you said? Eating marshmallows leads to expensive crowns. The joints freeze up. Getting out of a chair, leads to visions of Lot’s wife turning into a pillar of salt. Our skin sags into our boots though there is not much room due to the orthotics. No matter how many times I look, I am startled by the image in the mirror. How did this happen? Just when I think I have reached peaceful self-acceptance, I spot it—a last vestige of my youth! There in the mirror and on my face is a ginormous, shiny, swollen, pulsating plug of sebum. I have acne! I scour the drugstore aisles examining and testing acne treatment products. I thought I was done with this when my teen years were over, but then I re-opened the investigation when my children entered adolescence. Here I go again. My doctor tells me adult acne is a result of declining estrogen that allows testosterone to show itself. Really?! Couldn’t I have large muscles or be the powerful dictator of a small country instead? No matter our age, it seems hormones are determined to have the last word. Makes you feel like a kid again. Just not the kid I had in mind. A friend and I chuckle about a son’s comment that “adulting is hard.” Our young 20-something children are surprised by the daily demands of adult life: When must you go to the doctor, and when can you wait it out? How do you handle health insurance claims, purchase a car, come up with rent and a security deposit, file an income tax return? My friend and I know that the list is endless. We begin “adulting,”or trying on adulthood even as preschoolers during dress-up play. We put on dad’s shoes trying to understand how it feels to be him. We carry mom’s briefcase around emulating her dress and behavior. But when do we really become grown-ups? Where is the line in the sand? Is it when we turn 18? 21? After we have voted in our first election? Upon graduation from high school? College? After we get “a real job?” I think about my years in graduate school. Legally, I was an “adult.” I made my own medical appointments and took care of my own health insurance. I purchased a car and paid my own rent, filed my own income taxes. Was I really an adult? During those years in graduate school, I had a very close friend named Will. Will’s wife became pregnant during our second year in the program. We were all broke and exhausted from full time coursework, internships, and jobs that did not pay well. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. Life was fueled by cheap coffee and wonderful camaraderie. We focused on survival and hanging out with our friends. The day Will’s daughter was born, Will called me with the news. Will described the childbirth experience from a new father’s point of view: “Something remarkable happened,” he said. “The instant she was born, everything mattered. Just like that, I cared about HIV, toxic waste, and the Cold War. Everything mattered because of her.” Abracadabra! It had happened. The news was much bigger than just another birthday. Suddenly we were no longer carefree graduate students with our little problems. What happened in the world mattered to us now because someone small and vulnerable mattered even more. As children, we were shielded from the terrifying realities of the world. We did not have the knowledge, wisdom or insight to worry about toxic waste, the Cold War or HIV. We felt secure in our nests surrounded by adults who seemed so powerful to us. We trusted that the world was in good hands. Sometimes having a child can shake us out of complacency or bring us into the realities of adulthood. It does not work for everyone. And it is not necessary to have a child to become aware that we are now responsible for what happens in the world. Perhaps, there is no particular age at which we make the giant leap over that line in the sand. We become grown-ups at the moment when the issues of the day begin to matter, when we can no longer look away or look toward someone else for all the answers. We become grown-ups when we feel the weight of the future and acknowledge that it is now in our hands. And then we make a deliberate commitment to care. Our kids are correct. Adulting is hard! I push myself out the door for a morning walk. The sky is dark and dreary. The air is moist, and it is cold. Gusts of wind sting my eyes. Within a few yards of my home, my fingertips begin to tingle inside my gloves, I walk along an urban bike path past clusters of office buildings. Tucked between the newer constructions and further back from the bike path, there is a small, nondescript structure that is home to a substance abuse treatment center. As I proceed along the path, I pass a young man walking with his head down, pressing into the wind. On this cold, wet day he wears worn jeans and a sweatshirt. He has no coat, no gloves, no hat. He walks with purpose. He does not look up or speak when we pass. On my return, I again walk by the treatment center. A woman who appears to be of middle age is coming from the parking lot toward the bike path. She is dressed in leggings and a hooded sweatshirt. The hood is drawn up tight around her face. She passes by me, her expression is blank. I wonder how far she has to go. I think about how cold she must be. I wonder if the young man I passed earlier made it safely to his destination, if he will suffer consequences of being unprotected in the cold. I wonder more about where they each are headed on this path we share, and I wonder about their lives before substances tricked them into giving up all reason and judgment, before they were robbed of health and happiness. Passing this clinic today, I realize that I have been lucky. All of us are just one drink, one pill, one snort, one naïve and reckless day away from walking a different path. I walk for enjoyment. They walk to save their lives. For all those traveling the same path, may the road rise up to meet you, and may the wind be always at your back. My father’s pack was already heavy that day that he enlisted in the United States Army. He just didn’t know it yet. At 16, filled with youthful energy and resolve, dad thought he had found a solution to life’s problems. His father died when dad was 14. The death was sudden and unexpected—a bad case of pneumonia before the advent of antibiotics. It did not take long for the pneumonia to overtake my grandfather. In a couple of days, he went from being a healthy, active dad of two boys to only a memory. The older of the two boys and now responsible for the care of his disabled mother and little brother, dad made a pact with his brother Bob. As soon as he could, dad would enlist in the military and provide financially for their needs. Bob would remain at home and care for their mother. Already in that invisible pack the day dad enlisted: being born at the start of the Great Depression to two physically disabled parents; living on the edge of poverty throughout his youth; a great war that terrified the world and made the future uncertain; the death of a father and no time to mourn; worry and care for a younger sibling and a grieving mother. Added to that pack through years of military service first in the Army and then the Air Force: adjustment to military life, a pack or two of cigarettes each day; a hasty and short marriage that ended in annulment; deployments; marriage and four children; moving every couple of years; job stress; deaths of family members. It seemed the pack was bottomless. After 17 years of active duty, my father separated from the military. Later, my parents divorced, and my father moved away. More weight for the pack. Further down the road, he developed pancreatic cancer. Dad faced it like a soldier-airman, and through a miracle that awed his doctors, dad lived five more years. The illness and treatment took a toll, but dad had some quality of life. Disappointed that he no longer had the stamina to work, dad became a hospice volunteer. My talented and artistic sister-in-law made dad some calling cards that said, “Believe in Miracles.” Dad was a hit in his hospice circle. When our father’s cancer returned, his attempts at treatment were halfhearted. My brother, HB, became desperate to keep our father alive. HB had a menu of health drinks that he concocted daily for Dad. During a visit to his home, I noticed that Dad left the health potions untouched on the end table while he stared blankly at the TV. One day, alone with my father, I pointed out the warm health drink that now looked thick, flat and disgusting. “Dad, you don’t want to do this, do you?” My father began to cry. He had nothing left, he said. The first round of cancer had been so difficult that it took everything he had to survive. “We must tell the others,” I said. True to his roots as a soldier and an airman, my father expressed a feeling of shame about giving up. He did not want any of us to be disappointed in him. He did not want to let us down. I assured him that we all understood. We had all been with dad through that first horrifying round of surgeries, complications, and treatments. We had all survived dad’s blackout and car crash that sent us searching for him in the night when his blood sugar tanked as he tried to adjust to his post-surgical insulin-dependence. As the disease progressed, I often spoke to my father by phone—he from his home in California, me from my home in Ohio. I always knew it was dad calling because I heard gut-wrenching sobs coming from the other end of the line when I answered the phone. I waited patiently until my father reached the point where he had exhausted himself and could cry no more. I then offered what comfort I could. One day the phone rang. Again, there was sobbing on the other end of the line. When the sobbing ceased, and it was quiet, I spoke, “Dad, I know that you are sick and sad and scared, but somehow I know there is something more that you are not saying.” More tears. “For fifty hears something has been bugging me. Until now, I never knew what it was.” The thing that had been bugging my father for most of his life was the death of his own father. Years of unexpressed grief were now overtaking my dad. “Because of it, I was not the man I could have been. I was not the father I wanted to be. I did not have the life I dreamed of.” Dad’s last piece of fatherly advice: “Don’t let sorrow ruin your life.” In that moment on the phone, Dad’s invisible pack burst open. There was no holding it back. The pack had grown so enormous and so heavy that the real man had been hidden from view. It had gotten in the way of fully living his life. My father was like Sisyphus rolling a giant boulder up the mountain. Every day was consumed by the effort of shouldering his invisible pack. And now he had insight but no time left for a do-over. Mercifully, there was enough time for frank conversations and forgiveness. Dad grew up in a time when people did not talk openly about their sorrows. Adults did not even believe that children were affected by events like the death of a parent. My father reached manhood amongst the brave but silent World War II veterans who provided an example of how to be a soldier and a man. We all come into this world with an invisible pack. Some of us are fortunate to reach adulthood with little weight added. Others, like my dad, carry overwhelming burdens before they reach high school. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “Sorrow makes us all children again…” For my father, the overwhelming sorrow of childhood robbed him of a successful adulthood. Though handsome in his uniform, It was all dress-up and make believe. Dad’s pack was heavy. It weighed on all of us. We just didn’t know it. The commercial airlines have it right. Keep your baggage light or it may cost you more than you want to pay. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
April 2024
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