Category: gratitude

Acceptance

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Arizona Sunrise

**

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.

**

Nevertheless

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments
Watercolor by Laurie L. Wile

~ ~

I’ve always known I’d never get

whatever it is I wanted.

No way, I’ve felt, do I deserve 

my desires—I’m just not worthy.

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

~

(Of course, I’ve never known just what

I’ve wanted until somebody

told me just what I ought to want,

good co-dependent that I am.

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.)

~

There’s so much that I’ve never done,

and much that I’ve done I failed at;

places I never went to, and

places I never really saw.

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

~

Often, I’ve been a hollow man,

trying to stuff his emptiness

with all manner of addictions

(the list’s banal, embarrassing).

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

~

The faces of the people that

I’ve ignored, hurt, disappointed,

abandoned, disdained, or abused

haunt me in the wee small hours. 

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

~

Now diminished by old age to

a funhouse mirror of myself,

I sense Death looking at his watch,

impatient, counting down the time.

Nevertheless, my life’s been good.

Through all of it, I have been loved.

~ ~

Somehow

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…

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.

…

Sanctuary

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First Parish Church of Yarmouth, Maine 70 years later

~          

Now is the time to sit, be still, recall

those Saturdays at the First Parish Church,

where through stained glass, sun shines on empty pews,

and dust mots dance a silent jitterbug,

while I, at twelve years old, help out my dad, 

who moonlights as the sexton of our church. 

                                    ~

The great green doors shut out the noisy world—

my school with bells, droning voices, “Pipe Down!”

playground bullies’ intimidating threats;

my house with TV cowboys, Lawrence Welk,

and anxious voices trying to decide

what bills to pay and which to set aside—

as I collect last Sunday’s bulletins

from red pews tagged with names from long ago.

                                    ~

My corduroy trousers whistle as I walk.

I add my voice, which echoes off high walls

 just like Elvis singing, “Heartbreak Hotel”:

“Since my baby left me (whistle, whistle), …” 

Generations of church parishioners

like those in the old photos down the hall

silently applaud, and I feel at peace—

safe from strident voices, embraced, strengthened, 

supported by a Something I can’t name.

                                    ~

Now is the time, when storms of every kind

assault my brittle bones with screaming winds,

that I will sit, be still, watch those dancing

rainbows, sense kindly clouds of witnesses 

enfolding me as I lift soul in song

 in the sanctuary of memory. 

                                    ~

Joy

Published on by geriatric pilgrim10 Comments

#

Oh, there were early inklings: 

the feel of my bat sending the ball over the left-field fence, 

speeding in a convertible over the one-lane wooden bridge at 60 m.p.h. 

watching the sun set behind Wyoming’s Grand Tetons—

strange times when I somehow escaped the carefully cultivated confines of my mind. 

But with no idea what those moments meant, I forgot them. 

Only after the Great Loss, 

And years of slogging 

through missing keys and sleepless nights, 

of being terrified strife would strike again, 

of sarcasm, swearing, pounding the walls, 

of regrets for what I had and hadn’t done, 

of downcast eyes and hunched shoulders, 

of tears during saccharine movies

and sobbing on anniversaries,

came the song: 

Buddy Holly on the car radio after a really bad day.

First humming along, then softly singing, 

then louder, louder, until at the top of my lungs: 

“It’s so easy to fall in love!”

Broken open,

releasing embarrassment, lethargy, fear, anger, guilt, shame, and sorrow.

Later, I realized how foolish I must have looked to other motorists. 

But I didn’t care. There was no going back.

No retreat. No surrender. 

No forgetting such a gift.

##

On Hope: an Admonition

Published on 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!

The Snows of Christmas Past

Published on by geriatric pilgrim5 Comments

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After years of counseling and going to meetings, remembering Christmas when I was a kid now feels like peering through my frosted window at a soft and steady snow covering up dead leaves, discarded pumpkins, and broken branches under the diseased hemlocks beside the house.

My family’s disease was alcoholism. Mom’s memories of her drunken father passed out on Christmas Day, her shame at not being able to bring friends home, Dad’s bitter memories of Christmases in a Home for Wayward Boys and in the Army during WWII, his sense of being victimized by a social system he saw based on greed—feelings he tried to wash away with a pint of Old Crow—the arrival each Christmas of my mother’s mother, Nanny C, a large bitter woman whose acid tongue could peel paint, permeated our house during the holidays like their cigarette smoke.

In the weeks before Christmas, I’d hear Dad’s grumpy voice through the register in the floor of the bathroom asking where the hell were they going to get the money and Mom’s brittle reply they were just going to have to find a way; her children weren’t going to have the shitty Christmases she did. And I’d know it was up to me to make sure the holidays were happy. So that Christmas morning when Dad groaned because his head hurt, and Mom and Nanny perched on the edge of their chairs hovering like crows on telephone poles watching my younger brother and sister and me open our presents, and I ripped off Christmas wrapping to find a rainbow-colored wool hat that only a girl would wear, I said, “Oh, I love this. Thank you!” 

Ah, but here come the snows of nostalgia, which, I’ve discovered, is not all bad, especially when it brings memories of wading up to my knees in in the white stuff to help my father cut a tree, the smell of fresh fir as Mom and Dad set up the tree on the porch, decorating it with ornaments I still have 70 years later, popping corn and stringing it on the tree, smelling Nanny C’s fudge and Mom’s cookies and bread, and hearing my grandmother playing carols on our piano.

Or of walking home from sledding in the 5:00 p.m. darkness, carrying my Flexible Flyer past the drug store and the hardware store, their neon lights shimmering, casting shadows on the snow banks, past the big white Georgian houses on Main Street with their candles in the windows, then down Bridge Street, seeing my house and our lighted tree on the back porch, and feeling the Christmas excitement when the possibilities of happiness were as many as the stars in the frozen sky.

Or of helping my father, who moon-lighted as sexton in our church, get ready for the Christmas service by picking up last week’s bulletins from the Sanctuary, alone in this great empty space, the whistling of my corduroy pants as I walked echoing in a great and holy silence, and somehow feeling safe—held, enfolded by a Great Presence.

Then Christmas day: giggling in bed with Jaye and Roger, as we wait for 6:00 a.m. when we can wake the grownups, not knowing that Nanny C is in the next room listening to us with tears of joy running down her face—“Oh, you kids are so good, God bless you!” Christmas dinners of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, homemade bread, and cranberry sauce (which is what I ate. Let the grownups eat the squash and turnips and beans), followed by Mom’s pumpkin, apple, and blueberry pies topped with Sealtest Ice Cream. In the afternoon, Dad slept off his hangover on the couch, Nanny went back to the piano and she and Mom sang “White Christmas,” “The Christmas Song,” “I’ll be Home for Christmas,” while I played with my new model airplane or helped my brother or sister put together their farm or showed them how to play the new Parcheesi game or took my new skates (but, gee, I forgot my new hat) which Mom and Dad had bought on time to the town rink behind the movie theater or went up to my room to read the book I’d received: maybe Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer, Herb Kent West Point Fullback, a Hardy Boy’s mystery, or Zane Gray.

On Christmas night I went to bed with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk, turning on the radio to my favorite programs, most of which were having Christmas specials: Jack Benny exclaiming after having spent the last thirty minutes buying the cheapest gifts he could find, “Good night, everyone, and merry Christmas!” George Burns telling his wife, “Say good night, Gracie,” and her reply, “Good night, Gracie, and Merry Christmas,” and of course, a version of Dicken’s “Christmas Carol,” probably starring Lionel Barrymore. I ate, finished my milk, and crawled completely under the covers with the cookie crumbs, following Scrooge on his journey from “Bah, humbug!” to “God bless us, everyone!”

 While outside the window, at least in my memory, snow fell in great white, silent flakes.

My sister, Jaye, circa 1954, with her new poodle skirt, doll, and whatever it is on her wrist.

# #

First Friend

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Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you. —Luke 10:19

Staring at my 3 a.m. fears—A burning planet, a demented president-elect, disease, death—I think of you for the first time in years: first friend, neighbor, bodyguard, mentor, and, although three years older than I, my classmate from fifth through seventh grade.

Thick black hair and an Elvis sneer, Kirk Douglas dimple in your chin, sleeves rolled up as far as they’d go to show those growing muscles, your dark eyes often flashed anger at the world, but also amusement and compassion for the pudgy, awkward kid who worshipped the ground under your motorcycle boots.

Buddy Fitts, Freddy Gallant, Bucky Lapoint—none of the playground bullies—dared trip me, twist my arm, scrub my face with snow, because they knew they’d have to fight you first. And you were tough: sauntering up Bridge Street coatless in a ten-degree storm, snow clinging to your hair like chainmail on the Black Knight, carving your name on your veiny forearm with a Gillette Blue Blade.

In class, you never raised hell, never passed in a paper, just sat in the back seat looking cool until you turned sixteen and could legally split the joint. You cut CAROL into your upper arm and went to work in the cotton mill.

Playing basketball, fumbling with the buttons on Daisey’s sweater, I hardly knew you’d left. Never saw you much afterwards. Heard you and Lapoint started a paving business.

Home from college, I once walked by your house. You hadn’t grown since grade school but your tattoo was cool—a tiger’s head spanning your boney back as you banged away on a rusty Chevy. We grunted greetings. I forgot you.

At our 50th high school reunion, your cousin Roland said you lived in Tennessee, belonged to some Pentecostal church that prays with poisonous snakes to show God’s power over evil.

This dark morning, my friend, I think of how you protected me, wish you were here to keep me safe from the serpents slithering around me.

# #

How are You?

Published on by geriatric pilgrim8 Comments
Watercolor by Laurie L. Wile

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Well, despite the more or less constant pain in my lower back

and the burn of bursitis in both hips,

and not withstanding my apprehension about that new smell in the garage

and the housing development going in where I like to walk in the woods, 

and despite the fear that my grandchildren will live in a Fourth Reich

while this world turns to burnt toast,

and regardless of worrying about having a stroke which will paralyze the left side of my 

body so that I drool down one side of my mouth and lose control of my bowels,

and in spite of my nagging fear that there’s really nothing but darkness after death,

and the even greater fear that I will be reincarnated and have to learn all those goddamned

            things I’ve had to learn all over again,

I would say I’m grateful to be here. 

Thank you for asking.

Welcome, November

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#

As readers of this blog know, my daughter Laurie died at the age of 18 from a rare cancer. In November, seven months after the cancer was first diagnosed, she went into Eastern Maine Medical Center. Living 120 miles away, I took a leave of absence from my teaching job and moved into a Ronald McDonald House where I spent the next two months with my daughter until she died on December 23.

Since then, each November as the days grow darker and colder, I can feel my body chemistry change. I’ve coped in many ways, but the most helpful has been through writing. It’s no accident that the first Geriatric Pilgrim blog appeared in November 2015.

#

Sonnet for November

Novembers, I would drive my daughter past

Men in blaze-orange caps, crouched on a hill,

Their 30-30’s sighted, set to kill

Most anything, just so the gun would blast.

My heart began to flutter, then beat fast

As we drove by them—silent, savage, still—

And I could feel the air around us chill.

I’d think, how long, dear God, will this month last?

But I’ve since learned of other ways to die,

And russet hills now fill with memories:

Her gentle, kind, abbreviated life.

These days, I treasure the November sky

Which broadens once the leaves drop from the trees.

November wind is clean, a whetted knife.

#

Darkness

Now darkness begins:

light dimming after lunch,

long shadows on the lawn.

I curse the old lady

crossing the street

in front of my car,

lose gloves,

feel the familiar kick

to the heart. 

You’d think after all these years

I’d be over it,

but it’s always different…

this darkness…

Gone the murky numbness,

the black rages,

no more the dim corridors

of “if only” and “what if,”

lit up by Johnny Walker.

Now, who knows what waits 

in the darkness ?

Another old friend’s Christmas card

to bring me tears?

More recurrent dreams of stumbling

through stony landscapes?

Another season of bingeing bad TV?

Still, the waning light 

is clean and clear,

the view scoured of chewed leaves, 

dead flowers, black flies.

And sometimes, just sometimes,

Love enfolds my fears,

and I hear Laurie whisper, 

“Dad, let the thoughts go.

Let darkness begin.”