Dave | unobtrusive lucidity

Looking Backward

Last weekend Karen and I received an impromptu invite from some family members to drive to Bedford, VA, and visit the National D-Day Memorial for Memorial Day. In the absence of other plans, this seemed as good as any, so Monday morning we awoke (much to my chagrin) early and we were off.

The D-Day Memorial isn’t quite completed yet as I understand it, but I was surprisingly impressed with the place. I say surprisingly because war memorials really aren’t my thing, but I firmly believe in observing what a holiday was intended to observe when it rolls around, so we felt it a fitting thing to do. As much as I find myself a pacifist, I think those who have fallen in the barbarism of war should be remembered. Somehow, it is the least we can do.

One of our family members who accompanied us is a vet. Visiting one of these memorials with a vet makes it into a completely different experience. He became very emotional during the visit, and for the remainder of the afternoon I enjoyed dialoguing with him about what may or may not constitute a just war. Those who have served in the military bring a very different perspective to this issue, and when they dialogue with a pacifist such as myself…well, I love our family.

Of course, being that Monday was Memorial Day, there was a ceremony there that didn’t intrigue me so much. I’ve never made any secret of dislike for ceremony, and calling a war monument a “sacred” place as one of the chaplains intoned during one of many prayers left me a bit disconcerted (although he ended the same prayer with a request for peace, which I think does not happen nearly enough). I suffered through the ceremony though, mostly by people-watching. I watched the crowd more than I did the presentation of colors or the playing of “Taps.” I observed those around me salute or place hands over hearts during the National Anthem, and I listened to the way in which the speeches were crafted. To me, the whole ceremonial thing smacked of equating patriotism with faith, which leaves a nasty taste in my mouth (although not as nasty as an opening prayer addressed to the “god of all faiths.” I’m all about being ecumenical, but sheesh…). What I found, however, was that most of the audience, at least those I could observe around me, appeared to be, at best, profoundly moved or, at least, extremely appreciative of the ceremony.

The rest of our visit was spent strolling around the monument itself, with Karen as a brochure-bearing guide, which is the way we tend to engage these things. The artistry in the sculpture was excellent, and the creative manner in which the sculptures were arranged brought my admiration (at one point, the landfall of the invasion itself is re-created with life-size statues, complete with water jetting upward to simulate bullet strikes and a stylized landing craft from which they have emerged). The gardens were arranged as a huge replica of the symbol of Operation Overlord, with a large statue of Eisenhower at the head of the sword, and busts of all of his commanders surrounding the garden, complete with biographical plaques. Even the height of the central monument is significant.

I pondered how different people relate in different ways. Our family members connected primarily through the ceremony, Karen and I primarily through the artistic symbolism of the sculpture and overall design of the Memorial. As much as I dislike ceremony, I recognize its importance, and its difference from ritual (which I find useless a vast majority of the time). Ultimately, though, all of us experienced a deep ushering into remembrance for those fallen in combat and the history of that particular hellish day. That’s what the holiday was for, and the designers of the Memorial enabled this to happen wonderfully. I think I may have found a new appreciation for these things, and certainly have a deeper appreciation of those lives and souls lost during war.

I still stop short of having appreciation of war itself.

Puppeteering

Karen is occasionally into old episodes of the Muppet Show. I almost always have the same reaction: she puts in the DVD, I walk out of the room to do something else, convinced that I won’t be interested, only to end up coming back to watch it because it’s just a variety of comedy that isn’t done anymore, at least not done well. Many of the jokes are quick…the type you have to be on point to catch. What I enjoy about them is that they aren’t just pop culture references that only the “cool” will get, but rather cultural and artistic references in general that require education to pick up on. Tonight we watched an episode with Brooke Shields as the guest. The episode centered around the group’s humorously ill-fated attempt to do a comedic performance of Alice in Wonderland. The episode was full of fast references, visual and verbal, to this and many other fairy tales, in such a way that the audience wouldn’t pick up on them if they didn’t know what went with which, and didn’t have time to stop and think because everything kept moving. There was a reference to War and Peace early in the episode, and, my personal favorite, a performance of Jabberwocky! I couldn’t believe my ears, nor could I believe that I was able to still recite a good part of the poem along with the performance.

Why don’t we see comedy like that anymore? Don’t get me wrong, I loved Letterman through my college years, and appreciated the particular brand of humor that came with the late shows. That humor, however, was nothing compared to the educated humor that (even) the Muppet Show was able to provide. I think the reason is that our culture at large just isn’t nearly as educated as it once was.

In college, I watched an episode of Frasier in which a reference was made to someone “yelling ‘Heathcliffe!’ across the moors!” I laughed hysterically. My room-mate didn’t get it. More recently, while brainstorming a writing project for my faith community, I wrote a short piece patterned after A Modest Proposal. The editorial staff rejected it, stating that they had never heard of this essay, and thus were afraid readers wouldn’t understand my piece as satirical.

Is it possible that this many people haven’t heard of Wuthering Heights, or A Modest Proposal? Even if they haven’t read them, to have never heard of them?? The last thing I want to do here is be elitist: there are many, many pieces of literature I haven’t read. I don’t look down on those who aren’t well-read because I know all of us are gifted in different ways. Still, what happened to the level of education that was at one time held as the standard? When did the standard become exceptional?

I see an attempt in educational venues of all types, from faith communities to schools, to “bring down” the knowledge to where the audience is perceived to be. This underestimates the audience and students, whatever their age. Instead, why do we not leave the knowledge where it is and endeavor to bring the audience up to that level? The intense focus on the end result (i.e: test scores) is, I fear, doing a great deal of damage to the fabric of our culture, affirming an under-educated generation and raising one behind it that appears unapologetically ignorant in many realms. Already, the things that matter most are minimized in the name of industrialized progress. Spirituality and the arts are pushed to the back as science is deified. At the risk of pushing too hard with the sometimes sweeping generalizations I’ve made above, I have to sound the alarm: we’ve lost so much already…how will that be compounded when video completely replaces the written word, and language is degraded to succinct bullet-points in outlines?

Hopefully, that is the fear of a dark, alternate future of science fiction, and won’t ever become a reality.

If it does, though, I suppose no one will remember the genre anyway, so the irony will be lost.

True Love…In An Elevator

I was in a hospital today…well, more accurately, an outpatient wing of a major university medical center. As I was leaving to begin what would turn out to be an ordeal in the parking deck, I stepped into an empty elevator that had arrived with blissful expediency, and was waiting for the door to close. An elderly couple approached in the proverbial nick of time to beat the doors closing, asked if I was going down, and joined me in the elevator.

When I say elderly, I’m placing this couple in their upper 60’s or lower 70’s. It appeared to my brief observation that one of her eyes had just had a procedure performed, as it was red and perhaps a bit bloody. I was hesitant to make any extended eye contact…something about doing so in an elevator marks you as someone to be avoided, so my gaze shifted to the closing doors and the digital indicator of our current position between floors.

“Does it still hurt?” the man asked his wife, reaching over for her hand and taking it. She indicated that it did, more non-verbally than verbally, and he replied, “I’m sorry.”

Then we reached our floor, and went our separate ways.

While his vocal tone was tender and compassionate, the thing that struck me about this scene was his reaching for his wife’s hand; the caring and reassuring manner in which he grasped it, the way he held it as they stepped together, side by side, into the lobby of the building. There was little difference in the way I have grasped Karen’s hand in situations in which I was concerned about her. Or, for that matter, times when I’ve just been affectionate. Karen and I were taking a walk this past weekend. As we were talking about future dreams and goals, she gave me one of those smiles that are so rare and so impacting in their beauty, and I gave her hand a firm squeeze. She asked what that was for, and I told her it was “I love you” squeeze. She said she could tell.

No difference between us in our 30’s and the couple on the elevator today in their 60’s or 70’s, except that their affection toward each other, sort of like wine I guess, had grown much better with age and wisdom.

If Karen and I are still alive at 60 and 70, I hope our affection for each other has deepened the way that this couple’s obviously had, because there is so very little of that in the world at large. So little of love seems to last, because so many cheap substitutes for love abound and are readily accepted in our culture, not to mention all of the wars and pressure for possessions that drown out it’s voice. The end result, I think, is that we are at best deprived, or at worst forgetful, of the power of real love and affection. The world needs the sort of love I felt emanating from the couple in the elevator today to fly in the face of a cultural cynicism, a pervasive angst. We are in serious need of more real love.

Hopefully, in our 60’s, we’ll be like the couple today in the elevator. And, hopefully, someone perhaps newly married will be observing us in a given situation as I was observing them today. And, if so, then hopefully we’ll inspire that person.

Hopefully. Because hope is what that kind of love is all about.

Careful What You Ask For

Friday night I listened to someone tell a story of one of those moments when our paths cross those of others. He was waiting for the local Best Buy to open because he needed to make a quick purchase, when someone pulled up next to him in tears. He had an moment to just talk with that person, to make sure they were okay, to be briefly part of another life’s timeline. Some call these moments coincidence; I’ve learned to not be that naive. That hadn’t happened to me, at least not in that demonstrative a way, for some time. “That would be incredible,” I thought as I listened to the story. Perhaps that I would have a similar opportunity.

Careful what you ask for.

Last night was a low-key sort of evening for Karen and I (since when did Saturday nights become about staying in with a movie and cooking dinner? I’m officially old now…). Dessert required a quick supply run to the nearby grocery store, so I jumped in the car and headed about a block down the street. It was a man’s grocery shopping expedition: definite list, in out and done in under five minutes. Just the way I like it. I was standing in line at the self check-out kiosk (I so like not having to deal with people forcing themselves to be nice while they bag my groceries, something I’m perfectly capable of doing myself), and I noticed a woman enter from the other end. She looked like had recently been to the pool or something, which would have gone with the beautiful evening in Virginia yesterday. When the kiosk in front of me was momentarily vacant, she began looking around it, as though she had lost something. It took her a few seconds. I think she checked in with the attendant that monitors the kiosks, I’m not sure. Then she left. I was already scanning and bagging…not really paying much attention at that point.

Moments later as I made my way across the parking lot to my car, this same woman, along with at least one other person, were in their vehicle, which happened to be parked next to my car. I was placing my grocery bag into the back seat when she turned. As both doors of her SUV were opened next to the passenger side of my car, I assumed she was going to acknowledge this and close them to permit me to back out more easily when I had entered my car. They looked as though they were searching for something that had been lost, as she had when looking over the check-out kiosk in the store.
“Excuse me, sir.” she asked. “Do you have a cell phone I could borrow?”
It occurs to me now that my hand dropped to the pocket that held my phone. Several thoughts immediately ran through my head. First, my obsessive compulsive germ-freak tendencies kicked in at the thought of a stranger’s lips being near my phone. My street smarts came next, thinking that she and the other person wanted to draw me closer to take me down, lift my wallet as well as my phone, and drive off into the sunset like Bonnie and Clyde. Then came my common sense, thinking of the hassle of return calls that would come from whatever numbers she might call with my phone, as my number popped up on who-knows-who’s caller ID. All these things flew through my head in a just a few seconds. So did the fact that I didn’t want to just lie and say I didn’t have a phone.
“I’m sorry.” was all I could reply. She nodded and I got into my car, momentarily annoyed that she didn’t close her doors so that I could back out of my parking place more easily.

I think it took me less than 30 seconds to realize that I had just received what I had asked for…an opportunity to positively impact someone’s life, not just with words, but in a tangible way. I had received that chance less than a day after asking for it, and I had frozen and bolted when it was there. So, I get to say this morning, as I have many mornings in my life, that I regret last night.

Our culture is dominated by fear and narcissism. We don’t want to engage others because we either see ourselves as being above doing so, or because we’re afraid of what could potentially happen to us if we did. For me, my selfishness last night was motivated by the latter. Helping someone always involves risk. I approached a homeless man in a Starbucks parking lot in California two summers ago to give him money. I didn’t know what that person was capable of, but I knew I felt compelled to give a few dollars. That was risky, but no more risky than handing a woman in the adjacent parking space my cellphone in broad daylight would have been yesterday evening. When we feel compelled to do these things, I don’t think it comes by accident, especially not after we have just asked for the moment to arise.

There’s a lot to be said for moving beyond fear, especially when the benefits far outweigh the potential cost. Assisting that person through that moment, whatever the underlying actual need was, was far bigger than the things about the situation that caused me to fear, however legitimate they may have been. Hopefully, another moment will come about in the near future, and, hopefully, I’ll be able to move past fear in order to do something important for someone else.

Hopefully.

Careful what you ask for.

Pressing Pause

What is it about time that causes dilution?

I remember my first professional position after I had graduated from college. I wore a tie to work every day, because I felt as though I had went to school for four years to earn that privilege (okay, so I grew out of the tie thing…). I remember the excitement that going to the office every morning held for me then, the challenge that accompanied every day. The excitement and newness of the whole thing created a strong impression in my mind. I remember the drive home passing a baseball field in the summer, and sliding into the parking lot in the winter. I remember the friendships made with co-workers. Inevitably, I remember moving forward.

Eventually, I moved to a corner office. I specialized a bit. I took on extra responsibilities, and ultimately moved to a different division with more exciting work. That move involved switching offices. Ultimately, I look back to recognize that as a catalyst that led to my owning my faith, but that’s a series of events for another post. I remember when I would occasionally return to my original office with the new position. Despite the excitement of the new job, I remember looking down the hallway in which my former corner office was located somewhat wistfully, remembering what it was like when it all first began.

During my college years, I had a similar experience with theatre. I passionately loved every second of every performance, regardless of how much stress was involved, until somewhere around my junior year, when the politics and repetitive pressure of the school came crashing in and I lost my love for it for a while, stepping away entirely for a few months, a victim to burnout. Yet, now, when I recall those first years, I remember them with all of the positivity and excitement that originally existed.

After grad school, I’ve found my faith to have suffered a similar loss. I remember the passion and excitement that filled me when I first owned my faith, first accepted it in full. I can look back over my seminary career and watch it progressively become less passionate as I pursued ministerial vocations for a short time, and more during my theological studies. It occurred to me tonight as I was catching up on some reading that I don’t feel the passion that I once did in my faith, even as recently as a few years ago. There’s so much junk to bog it down, so many politics, so many petty differences and theological mishmash, that I forget the peace that originally pervaded my life, even though it is still there if I stop to listen for it.

While that first job was a formative experience in my life, it was one of those things that you recognize is just necessary to move on from at some point. I rediscovered my passion for theatre years later, although in retrospect I didn’t really ever stop engaging in it. I do theatre for the same reason I write: I don’t know how to not do either one. My faith is just as intrinsic, and I am certain that the passion will return at some point, likely as I distance myself more from what is unimportant and focus more on what is important (assuming, of course, that I acquire the wisdom to differentiate the two).

I am in hopes that time’s ultimate effect is not to soften the passion that comes with new changes in life, nor to dilute the spark with cynicism as we discover the inevitable negative side to different elements of our life that were filled only with the perception of promise and no difficulty when we first embarked upon them. If time erodes our naivete, however, then I think it is not necessarily a bad thing. At the end of the day, I am in hopes that the effect is like aging on wine, and we emerge from our life endeavors with a better result because of the difficulties experienced in the middle. In short, I am clinging to a positive perspective on the benefits of realism vs. the callousness of pessimism that time tends to breed when we encounter the obstacles inherent in all of our life’s pursuits. I am staying hopeful that the entire rest of the journey won’t be fraught with the need for sheer willpower to replace energetic engagement in our faith, our art, our vocations.

Only time will tell.