Adult Children of Alcoholics – The Geriatric Pilgrim: Traveling the Landscape of Faith and Grief

The Highways

Published on January 26, 2026 by geriatric pilgrim5 Comments

‘Be not afraid.’ Those words don’t say ‘Have no fear.’ Instead, they say I don’t need to be my fear.—Parker Palmer

So much to fear,

so I fled to the caverns

and sat in the gathering darkness

around my tiny fire.

I heard the earth, consumed

by fire and poison, cry out in agony.

Insane voices screamed threats.

The air reeked of corruption.

Gunshots echoed in the canyons.

Grieving parents wept.

I felt my strength ebbing as

I sensed the valley of the shadow below.

How I longed for the sky to light up

and a voice from the heavens

thunder, “Be Not Afraid!”

and an angel descend to

sheathe me in unconquerable courage.

But in the silence amidst the tumult

and the suffering, an old friend

I’ve never met said,

“‘Be not afraid’ doesn’t mean ‘Have no fear,’

but rather, ‘do not be your fear.’”

I raised my eyes and looked back at my journey,

not only at the deep crevices of death

and quicksands of despair,

but at hilltops of hope,

ponds of trust,

forests of generosity,

fields of strength,

oceans of love,

and saw fear was but part of the landscape.

Therefore, I have risen from the ashes,

left the caverns,

and resumed the journey,

resolving to live on the highways

and not in the hollows,

cherishing each rock on the road.

The sun has not yet set.

~ ~

Broomstick Season

Published on November 24, 2025 by geriatric pilgrim12 Comments

The trees that can have given up their leaves—

the reds and golds you see in magazines,

(though dry and chewed and rotting with black mold)—

standing outlined against the sky: broom sticks

whose branches seem about to sweep the clouds.

Hard not to recall those who died this month:

a grandmother, father, mother-in-law,

Thanksgivings when their absence filled our plates.

The Ronald McDonald House Thanksgiving

of turkey, fear, anxiety, and tears,

as my wife and her sons saw my daughter

for what we all knew would be the last time.

Well into the November of my life,

I mourn the green and teeming dreams I had,

The gaudy colored leaves of happiness,

chewed by anger and blackened by misdeeds.

Now naked of ambition, strength, shame, guilt,

but rooted in the rocky soil of Grace,

supported by my friends and families,

I raise my bony, brittle arms to sweep

away remorse, and cry in gratitude:

Thank you, thank you, and thank you, for it all.

~ ~

To Friends who Tell me I Need to Lighten Up

Published on June 2, 2025 by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments

What can I say? I like clouds in my sky.

~ ~

Thank you for your concern

about my mental health,

but I’d rather embrace

my grief and fear

as if they were gassy grandparents

who keep my school photographs

on their refrigerator

to show my yearly growth

than banish the old farts

to the basement

and have them pound

the floor under me

with a broom handle.

Don’t get me wrong, friends,

I do count my blessings,

I am grateful for health, family, friends.

And I don’t pretend to understand

what it’s like trying to stay afloat

in the black seas of chronic depression.

But happiness, I’ve discovered,

can become complacency,

which can be a stagnant pond

swarming with blackflies.

I find more blessings to count,

more for which to be grateful,

after having been broken open

by the deaths, destruction, decay around me,

some of which I’ve caused,

some of which I haven’t deserved,

and some of which is just life.

Without looking at my grief,

I’m not able to recognize my joy.

And I don’t mean glancing at loss

the way I rubberneck

at an accident on the highway.

I mean reentering the suffering,

scrutinizing the fears,

which means talking

and writing about them.

My urge to create begins in loss,

my gratitude begins in fear,

my compassion begins in pain,

and my joy begins in sorrow.

All of which, I guess, is to say:

I’d rather be whole than happy.

~ ~

Acceptance

Published on April 21, 2025April 21, 2025 by geriatric pilgrim1 Comment

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…

When it comes, the clouds clear and the sun shines and you see things the way they are—

not perfect, certainly, maybe not even great, but all in all, not bad—

and you stop trying to change things and beating yourself up when you can’t.

The accusing voices in your head, the illusions of grandeur, the sirens’ songs of temptation

fade away and you find yourself singing an old Everly Brothers’ tune or a Christmas carol.

The gyre grows smaller, the falcon returns to the falconer, things come together,

the center holds, and serenity envelopes the world.

Don’t get me wrong, the clouds will return, more storms will come—

mistakes, injuries you’ll inflict (most of them upon yourself),

unrealistic expectations, failures, disappointments, defeats, deaths—

but maybe, next time, you’ll see rain, not Noah’s flood.

Somehow

Published on March 12, 2025March 12, 2025 by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments

…

Somehow, my parents from broken homes gave me a whole one.

Somehow, I met the right teachers at the right time.

Somehow, I fell into a vocation I loved instead of a job I endured.

Somehow, I survived my child’s death.

Somehow, I stopped trying to drown my problems in cheap scotch.

Somehow, I learned to listen.

Somehow, I discovered joy.

Somehow, I no longer feel ashamed of being human.

Somehow, I’ve kept going even when I feel I’m walking in a circular trench.

Somehow, I’m still alive.

Somehow, I’ve not only survived, but grown.

Somehow, I remain hopeful.

Somehow, I believe, is another name for Grace.

…

The Old Lesson

Published on February 11, 2025 by geriatric pilgrim5 Comments

71 years old,

lungs aflame,

lower back throbbing,

I rest on my hiking poles

halfway up

still another hill

at an iron gate

amid gorse and nettles,

trying to pick

out the path rising

through a herd

of cows grazing on

gangrenous grass between me

and another gate

and the trail that

winds through woods

to tonight’s B&B

and the joy of a hot bath.

The gate clangs as

I trudge into the herd,

which parts before me

like the red sea

except for one

brown and white cow,

legs tucked beneath her,

who stares at me

impassively,

before lifting her haunches,

and dropping a steamy

pile on the path

already strewn with

“chips,” “dung,”

“flaps,” “muffins,”

“patties,” “pies” —

choose your euphemism.

The pasture’s a mine field.

I zig, zag, circle,

back-track, hop—

marching thirty yards

to advance ten.

Fog mists my glasses.

Sweat soaks my shirt.

The air smells of decay.

At this rate,

I’ll still be

hiking after dark.

Panic attacks like

a squad of minges.

Then, like an aging general

roused from his nap

to lead me once more

into battle against

my old foe, Avoidance,

comes the prayer:

God, grant me the serenity

to accept those things

I cannot change …

I keep to the path,

hear the squish,

feel my boots slide,

raise my eyes

to silver clouds

billowing over a line

of ancient trees,

glimpse red sandstone,

the courage to change

the things I can …

squish, slog, slide,

watch a brown hare

scamper to a stone wall

adorning the hill

like a necklace,

And the wisdom

to know the difference.

Now at the gate

to freedom,

I bow to the sky,

having learned

yet again

that to get to joy

you often have

to walk through shit.

(after David Whyte’s The Old Interior Angel)

Sonnet for the new Year

Published on January 20, 2025 by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments

The hemlocks in the hollow all have toes

That curve and claw down into rocky ground

To keep them anchored when the north wind blows,

And waters rise as heavy rains come down.

But overhead, these trees sway in the gale,

Dancing a jig to nature’s stormy song,

As if in celebration while winds wail,

Of their sure faith no tumult can last long.

Great lesson, that, especially this year

When God knows what strange winds will blow ‘round me:

Grasp on to love, trees say, instead of fear;

But sway, be supple, let adversity

First rev and race and then run out of gas.

Keep faith, my soul, that this as well shall pass.

On Hope: an Admonition

Published on January 6, 2025 by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

Stop confusing it with expectation.

You’re going to be disappointed,

resentful, angry, pissed off at God

because the cancer didn’t disappear,

you didn’t get that new job you wanted,

Hurricane Hattie flooded your basement.

(Write this down: Don’t hope for anything

you can see, hear, touch, smell, or taste.)

And even if you do get to come home

from the hospital a day early,

or the car coming right at you swerves

away at the last saving second,

or your friend’s stock tip pays off enough

to finance an Aruba vacation,

please, please, please don’t proclaim to the world

how God in His goodness answered your prayers.

You’re only setting yourself up for

future resentment, not to mention

guilt and shame for having somehow displeased

His Royal Holy Hood.

Instead, divest, dismantle, ditch, doff, dump

expectations, anticipations, wishes.

Take a deep breath, and go for a walk

along that path you’ve been walking all

your life. Don’t worry about what’s ahead

—Here be dragons, right?—

but have a seat on this old tree stump.

Take more deep breaths, turn, look back

at all those times when, despite all your

mistakes, your blindness to injustice,

your embracing each Seven Deadly Sin

as if your happiness depended on it

while breaking all Ten Commandments

like you were making a hash omelet,

times when, despite your screwed-up family,

the hereditary overbite,

hip dysplasia, and weak heart,

times when despite the ugly divorce,

your daughter’s even uglier death,

all those goddamn operations,

the loss of lung capacity and libido,

you love the woman you wake up next to,

you sing to Sirius FM’s ‘Fifties Gold,’

you savor your morning hot chocolate,

you look forward to lunch with old classmates,

you feed the birds, play the banjo, plant

a garden, enjoy Wordle and Brit Box,

worshiping in silence, dabbling in poetry,

watching the grandchildren grow up.

Hope is not about getting what you want,

it’s about seeing what you already have,

the force that makes life worth living,

that same power that is pushing new growth

from this dead tree stump you’re sitting on.

Now, go get those dragons!

Family Triptych

Published on December 9, 2024 by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments

Weilburg

Traveling 3500 miles to a town in Germany

smaller than the one in Maine where I live—

no tours, no souvenir shops,

no one speaking English except back at the hotel,

I stand by Neptune’s Fountain

in Market Square beneath the God of the Sea

thrusting his trident into the head of some leviathan,

my lungs still burning from climbing the hill to get here,

trying to imagine 25-year-old Johann Frederich Weil

wandering the square

before leaving for Halifax, Nova Scotia,

lured by the British Government’s offer

of free passage, free land, & a year of free rations,

knowing from Ancestry.com

his descendants will anglicize the name & populate places

like Wile’s Lake, Wileville, & Wiles Road,

until the turn of the 20^th Century

when Lyman & Lester Wile

leave Canada for a shoe factory

in Marlboro, Massachusetts

where Lyman will marry Edith Conrey

& sire my father who

because his mother left Lyman when Dad was 4 years old

(apparently because of spousal abuse)

didn’t give a shit about his father or his family.

Then Johann dissolves—

if he was ever here in the first place—

into the salmon & cream-colored two-story buildings,

round-arched arcades, & a matching-colored four-story Italianate castle

as my wife and I join the half-dozen folks in leather & wool

sipping beer & coffee at outdoor tables by a small restaurant.

Still, walking back to the hotel

looking down the hill

at the Lahn River, a small waterfall, an old stone bridge,

I think of the hill I grew up on, the bridge below my house

over a similar river by a similar waterfall,

& I feel a weird calm,

connected by currents beyond my ken.

The Royal River Grill

Walking into a restaurant

with large windows looking out on the harbor

& soft lights meant to look like candles,

I see Buzz & Chuck & Ted sitting at a long oak table.

A shiver of both anxiety & eagerness

& the next thing I know it’s 1953,

when this building was the site of the Stinson Sardine packing plant

& I’m ten years old & in fourth grade

& I’m going to my first meeting of Mike’nBuzzie’s Gang

at Mike’s house just up the hill from here,

because earlier that afternoon

when it had been my turn to stay after school

to erase blackboards,

as soon as Mrs. Croudis left for the teachers’ room,

Buzzie’s brother Craig ran into the classroom.

“We’re getting a gang together

for an apple fight with the uptown kids!

Big meeting at Mike’s house! Let’s go!”

Dropping the eraser, I ran out the door—

the first time in my life I’d ever disobeyed one of my teachers.

But for the first time in my life I didn’t care.

A timid kid, raised in a family

where a miasma of alcoholic anger & anxiety

hung over us like the fumes

from the neighboring paper company,

I’d lie awake mornings before school

afraid of the day ahead,

of having my arm twisted or my face washed with dirty snow

by sixth graders like Mike’nBuzzie,

and now they want me to join them!

Never mind that the apple fight with the uptown kids never happened,

or that Mike now has Parkinson’s & stays home

& that Buzz & Chuck & Ted & I, and later, Allie & John,

have little in common these days

except our L.L. Bean khakis & plaid shirts.

I laugh & reminisce.

At home.

Still part of the gang.

The Cemetery

Under gnarled & broken maple trees,

I walk around my family cemetery plot,

taking pictures of the wedding—

of the bride, who stands 5 feet

& maybe weighs 100 pounds,

her upper chest tattooed with angels,

her dyed magenta hair, & flowing black gown,

& the groom, my stepson,

probably 6’4” & 270,

black lipstick & kilt, red-haired & bearded,

standing in front of the family stone,

originally part of the cellar of my mother’s grandfather’s house,

while my second wife,

an ordained Deacon in the Episcopal Church,

performs the ceremony.

My stepson’s two daughters stand as ring bearers

near the memorial stone for my daughter,

who died at 18.

My wife’s ex-husband & his wife

stand between my grandmother’s granite stone

& the memorial stone for Nanny’s ex-husband.

Not far from my great-grandfather & great-grandmother’s marble stone,

my stepson’s nonbinary stepson from his first marriage

& their partner also take pictures.

The bride’s parents view the proceedings

in front of my mother’s bronze marker

between my father’s & my stepfather’s bronze markers

while my second wife’s sister, her daughter & son-in-law

watch both the wedding and a grandson

climbing the near-by gravestones

of my barber, my favorite teacher,

a classmate killed in Viet Nam,

& my little league baseball coach—

all of whom, I imagine,

rolling over in horror at this spectacle

of everyone dressed in black,

everyone smiling,

one big happy family.

Beginning Again

Published on September 9, 2024 by geriatric pilgrim5 Comments

I’m walking the grass loop around our housing development. Under the power line toward the community garden, I pass through what is now a shoulder-high host of Queen Anne’s Lace, golden rod, milk weed, bracken, and many other plants I can’t name. The flies swarm. The sweet songs of the cardinals and tufted titmouses (titmice?) have given way to the screeching of blue jays and crows. Monarch butterflies flit from flower to flower. The air smells ripe. Shadows crawl like the incoming tide over the landscape. Summer is ending.

And I feel myself coming alive. Beginning again.

The reason is simple. For seventy-five years—as a student, as a teacher—the golden rod, the lengthening shadows, the Monarchs, have meant the beginning of another school year. More than New Year’s Eve, more than the first warm day of the year, this is the time when, at some deep cellular level, I can feel myself waking up, ready to start anew.

It’s a good feeling. At my age, it’s easier to focus on endings than beginnings. I now celebrate—if that’s the right word—more birthdays of the dead than of the living: my grandparents, my parents, my daughter, my first wife, close friends. Ended are my long hikes, long distant driving, lifting anything over forty pounds, staying up after midnight, jumping into bed with my wife after a sexy movie (jumping anywhere, for that matter), five-course meals, Cuban cigars, Laphroaig Scotch… the list grows longer each year.

But as T.S. Eliot wrote, “In the end is my beginning.” (Hey, I’m an old English lit teacher, I remember stuff like that.) You can’t begin something until something else ends. School can’t start until summer ends (Yeah, I know, there’s summer school, but I’m trying to make an analogy. Don’t confuse me with technicalities.) It took the end of a disastrous year of studying forestry in college for me to begin my studies in English (which is why I’m quoting T.S. Eliot and not The Journal of Forestry.) It took the end of an unhappy 20-year marriage for me to begin a happy going-on-forty-year one. It took the end of a career in public education for me to go back to school for an MFA, write a couple of books, a bunch of essays, and going on nine years’ worth of blog posts.

So, what will I begin this year? Well, Mary Lee and I have a couple of trips planned (knock on wood: last year, we had three planned and they were all canceled). I will scrape and repaint my front door and clean out the garage.

But the biggest change I want to make is with The Geriatric Pilgrim.

When I began these blogs, I was fascinated by the idea of pilgrimage: how a pilgrimage differs from a vacation, or from going on a retreat, or from study programs (what I called “edu-cations”). Besides traveling to retreat houses and other spiritual sites in the United States, Canada, the British Isles, Israel, Turkey, and Africa, I collected pages of definitions of pilgrimage and of common characteristics of pilgrimages. I read a raft of books about various pilgrimages people had made.

Along the way, I became intrigued by my fascination with pilgrims and pilgrimages. What was in it for me?

Stature of a “Jakobspilger,” or St. James’s pilgrim: Speyer, Germany

Well, probably the main thing at the time was the idea that pilgrims are often searching for a source of healing. As you know if you’ve read these blogs, I was looking for healing after the death of my eighteen-year-old daughter from a rare cancer. And I found writing about the various pilgrimages Mary Lee and I had made even more healing than the pilgrimages themselves.

Gradually, I began to realize that pilgrimage is a frame of mind—an attitude of curiosity, detachment, wonder. It’s “traveling light,” as one writer says, of risk, of living in liminal space—leaving one location but not yet arriving at another—of exploration, the end of which, to quote T.S. Eliot again, “Will be to arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time.”

Since COVID arrived, with all its restrictions on travel, followed by my 80^th birthday, with its expanded waistline and diminished abilities, my blogs have focused more on applying the lessons of pilgrimage to my current life of walks in the neighboring woods, planting peas, tomatoes, and pumpkins in our community garden, and of exploring the twelve steps of my Al Anon program. This, too, has been healing.

But now I find myself no longer as interested in finding new ways to describe my pilgrimage, as I am in describing and exploring in more depth the landscape through which I’m traveling, a landscape that is always changing, sometimes in ways that please me—autumn color is just around the corner, the grandchildren are growing—sometimes in ways that piss me off or frighten me—the start of my favorite woods walk has been clear-cut, I’m finding it difficult to sing without coughing.

Writing about these joys and sorrows, I find I’m writing more poetry. I’ve just finished an on-line workshop for poets, and one of the highlights of my week is another on-line group of poets from all over the country, where we share our favorite poetry as well as poems we’ve written. I’m now subjecting my longtime writing group here in town to my poems.

So, I’m going to be posting more poetry here in these blogs as well as other experiments—prose poems, flash fiction and nonfiction—trying to look more closely at the physical and emotional landscapes through which I’m now traveling.