Who Am I Now?

In some ways, it is comforting to know that I am no longer the person I was four months ago. This comfort arrives in feeling the soft edge of compassion, and my own tenderness when out in the world. I returned something in a small town hardware store this morning. It involved electronically processing the return. And it was being done by an woman who was probably near seventy. Familarity with computers is not innate in this age range. I saw the frustration on her face, and her embarrassment at the length of time the transaction demanded. A transaction that acted up, refusing to cooperate. Forcing her to try again, though she did not understand what went wrong the first time. I had made her life in the quiet country store, less enjoyable. For that, I apologized. And that is what death has done to me, and for me. Brought me to the knowledge of my impact in both simple and complex interactions. And hope for a merged edge, rather than a ragged edge, when involved with friends, family, and strangers. I suppose the foundation point of this is an increased sensitivity, that is sensual and intuitive. Do I resent this? I would like to say so, but then would close my mind and heart to opportunity...... and the gifts of a gentle God, offering kindness and solace to my brokenness. The store clerk said to me: "You don't have to worry about me, I am here to help you. This mess on the computer counts for nothing in the big world. It seems to work out, no matter how little I know, or how much I screw up."

Going Back to Minnesota

I am making a short trip back home. This is what my horoscope said today:

Libra (Sep 23 - Oct 22)
You might wish that the tensions would just go away, but they won't until you consciously face what's bothering you.

Oh well.......

Living With An Alien

I am doing what I normally do. My life is fairly routine to those observing me. I walk in the morning, I take care of my house, I work on my projects. I add an artistic touch, here and there. Yesterday, I restrung the lights on my trellis, after cleaning up the explosion of the hundreds blown up by an accurate electrical strike. There is nothing like slivers of glass nestled in the cracks of a brick walk-way. I finally hit on the amazingly brillant idea of the vacumn cleaner. Over and done with.
It is difficult to live with the alien. Quiet, then noisey when least expected... in a moment dedicated to something or someone else. Subtle, then voracious. Showing an appetite meant for consumption, with no care or concern for the menu. Clumsy in enthusiasm for taking the lead and dominating the current involvement and emotional climate. Convinced that what is current is only a distraction, technically unimportant. I feel like a parent trying to ignore the repetitive and needling question of a four year old. Tolerant on the first launch, irritated with the continued need to return to the subject. Clearly no response adequately answers the inquiry or soothes and quiets the psyche of the explorer.
This alien, now with me for an unspecified amount of time, has a life and a quest of its own. This, at five in the morning is like a bad roommate barreling around in the kitchen, drinking the final dreg of beer left in last night's can. Banging the dirty dishes around in the sink, not washing them, but moving them so there is room to brush one's teeth in the kitchen. And when that is done, turning around to say innocently, 'did I wake you?'

The vacumn cleaner is not going to work on this job.

The Invention and Construction of Moving Forward

1. Watch others who are moving forward. Patrick, my next door neighbor, is painting his roof. A couple of days ago, all of his sons and all of the son's friends were up on the roof. Having a job that is hard, dangerous, and difficult seems to act like a magnet.
2. Rent a 14 inch chainsaw, and trim the small trees and foilage out of the backyard. The net result set the course of the next four days. Say nothing but 'Thanks!' to the sweat, branch entwinement, and resultant weak back. Distraction is not valued as it should be. Is working for me. And true to supposition, did act like a magnet.
3. Feel the feelings. Better to feel the feelings when walking, cleaning, and organizing. Doing this in the garage caused more feelings, as the garage has hosted any number of non-paying renters, of the four legged variety, for six months. Do not feel the feelings when reading, or trying to go to sleep at night. Shutting feelings down is okay.
4. Lower expectations. Feeling better is not going to happen for awhile.
5. Eat at the regular times, even though now, there are no regular times for anything. As well as no appetite.
6. Enjoy the ultimate privacy given by unplugging the phone. A little control is appreciated in the aftermath of no control.
7. Go where the dogs want to go, as they are always connected to God.
8. Take hope and faith that emptiness is space for lessons, revitalization, and change.
9. Do not fear change. If fear is present, rent chainsaw.
10. No one knows how to handle loss well. So spend a lot of time cutting a break for all. Most everyone is in some sort of grief process, and most of this is unknown to me. Tenderness and compassion is a good general rule. Especially while driving, and when in the grocery store.

Praxis

A year ago, when I started graduate school, I was actively involved in making a list of the reasons I should quit. This was both a conscious and an unconscious process. To exert control on the unconscious process, I made a decision to behave in the classroom. Not get into it with anyone, and not make assumptions on what appeared to be a traditional Catholic university. I knew those assumptions were grounded in my past. And spear-headed my rather inflammatory and confrontational Catholicism. I also knew that this had nothing to do with God, seeking and listening to God, or understanding and accepting the God ways. Which, deep inside of me, was my real goal. On my list, and close to the top, was my inability to comfortably understand what my professors were saying.
I think it is standard to find that language accompanies environment. I knew from my work experience that volcabulary represented culture as well as functionability. If I couldn't use the language as others did, no matter that it was was invented, mutated, or artistic, success and even comfort, would not follow.
I kept hearing words that seemed familar, but they were words that I did not use in my life. I did not really know what these words meant, and that is not where I wanted to start a rigorous course of study, crippled for mental exercise. My professors frequently used the word praxis. I finally looked it up: 1. practice: distinquished from theory 2. established practice; custom
3. a set of examples or exercises

Now praxis is in my volcabulary. And I can use the word. So let me say, there is no praxis for grief.

Teaching Delmar To Drive

About six months ago, my neighbor across the alley, came over to my house. This was a surprise to me as he is, overall, self-contained and shy. I knew he came over for a reason. He is a shameless smoker. He lit up on the back deck and forced himself down on a stool. It was six inches to the stool. He landed on it in a heap, as if he fell out of an airplane.

I knew he wanted something. I also knew that my attempts to reach out to him over the year, preceded this visit. A colon cancer placed him in a serious protocol that crushed his hope, isolated him, reduced his mobility, and masked his easy-going personality with anger. He had resisted all my attempts to get him to take errands with me, to talk and visit across the backyard fence, and respond to my inquiries as to whether he needed anything. His silence took me to enter his house without knocking, to sit on a worn linoleum floor, in order to look up at his face while I talked. During these visits, he would never look at me, managing a steady gaze at the TV, placed on the top of the refrigerator. He never spoke. When forced, he responded to a question or inquiry with a one word reply.

He was trapped in his grief, and helplessness. He imagined that his life, as he knew it, was over.
He was cut up, and sent away with a plastic bag attached to side. This bag was the focal point of of his rage. Refusing to cooperate with predictability, the bag ran his life. Spastically filling with a vengence, falling off to deposit its contents down the leg of his pants, defying all glue and velcro, the bag symbolized the end of control, the familar comfort range of life, and his ability to live without water, soap, and access to a bathroom.

I told myself that I continued my attempts because I needed breaks from my studying. I was as isolated as he was. My friends had fallen off, and my reading encased me. I was filled with anxiety concerning my curriculm. I had entered a world that appeared to have definition, theology. But as yet, this world was being defined by others. It was not my experience. I was reading about the experiences of others, pertinent to God and the God relationship. Fifteen minutes...trying to visit Delmar...gave me a clear pause. And removed me for a tiny moment, from knowing and feeling that God was not my best subject.

Delmar finally huffed out what he wanted while drawing in and exhaling a long stream of smoke. "I want to get my driver's license before I die. I want you to teach me the driver's manual so I can get my permit. Then I want you to teach me to drive." That is all he said. Then he stared at me. Being stared at by Delmar is rather disconcerting, as one eye is not lined up with the other. He had polio as a child, and his right side was useless. His right hand curled and frozen, his right leg and foot, deaf to the neurological transmitters.
I am sure there was some pause in my response, as I considered his body. I know I met his stare. I don't know how much time passed before I said, "okay."

Again, this all happened about six months ago. I was not a relaxed tutor when it came to studying the manual. I didn't know if Delmar could read. So rather than asking him if he could read, I set up the lessons to be visual. Over the weeks, I ascertained his reading ability. He had no experience with test taking. He knew nothing about the subtleties of the multiple choice test. I constructed dozens of multiple choice tests. I failed as a supportive instructor, often raising my voice when pointing out the pit-falls and explaining, 'yes, this answer is correct, but this answer is more correct.' I told him to stop thinking up his own creative defense for why he selected the answer he had, and just answer the damn question. A final description of my teaching technique is me screaming in the family room: "A STOP SIGN MEANS STOP. PLAIN AND SIMPLE. IF THERE IS A STOP SIGN, YOU MUST STOP. NOT: IF THIS OR IF THAT. JUST BECAUSE THERE ARE NO OTHER CARS AROUND DOES NOT MEAN YOU DO NOT HAVE TO STOP!" After that session, I smoked a cigarette.
The first time Delmar took the permit test, he scored 40 out of 50. He did well, but flunked. You can only get 8 incorrect answers. The test supervisor let us go over the test, at the site.
I raised my voice when looking at his idiotic answers. Again, he was making the rules up as he wanted them to be. To me, the correct answer was obvious. I was told by the supervising officer, to lower my voice, as other people were taking the test. Following this, the tutoring became more intense. And I am sure, firmer and more animated. I had Delmar nailed to the table.

He passed the second time. His score was nearly perfect. His photograph was not. It was a sterling moment. At age 70, Delmar's masculine ego was finally intact.
And it showed.

I am now teaching Delmar to drive. He has nearly killed us twice. On three occasions, I forced him to pull over, threw him out of the van, ended the lesson and took the wheel. I have gritted my teeth, clenched my fingers together in fists, grabbbed my pant legs in a frightened clutch, tried to look at the scenery, and tried to distract myself with drinking coffee. On nearly every outing, I have sworn I would quit as the 'driving instructor.' While a passenger, I have made my will out several times, and calculated the cost of side-swiping a new car. I have dripped sweat at the sight of a deer, three girls crossing an intersection, and a cardboard box in our lane. I have sworn vulgar words into phrases that no one has uttered before. I have taken Delmar driving when I was sure that no other car would be on the road. Meaning, he is driving at 4:30 in the morning. I have considered riding in the back of the van, but decided against this the day that he let go of the wheel and swerved us in front of a dump truck.

Why am I telling this story?

When encased in the emotional reality of an end, and an unwanted evolution, a wounded man taught me courage. When completely destroyed and frozen, without any sign of outward movement, Delmar re-upped for life. When he had lost everything, he decided to go to a place where he had always been denied. He decided to do this in his darkest moment, a life gone and a future life without hope. He went into the dark cave of a roaring lion, and said, 'I pick you.' He has stayed with a fierce, demanding and flawed teacher. He has never said no to where this instructor has taken him...the busiest and most dense environments, the quiet, soft woods, the freeway, and the rolling, expansive hills of Wisconsin. He constructed something that took him out of his pain, out of his loss, and out of his ended life. Why he did it...the timing... fails explanation. However, the lesson is not lost on me.

If there is a God, this God blessed me six months ago, by defining courage and pointing the path...which is fearless action

in the throes of grief.

Is There Training For Goodbye?

Is it found in drinking in the tone of voice, seeing the color of a person's clothes, the pause and list of a step, the curve of a cheekbone? Is it found in committing all to memory, one year piled on top of another, then unexpectantly... remembering? Is leaving a person for one hour, one day, one month preparation for having them leave forever?

Have all the leavings, of all the people I have loved, come to visit me today?

Probably.