Tag Archives: Introspective

A Particular Rear-View Mirror

In the Rearview Mirror, used under Creative Commons

Music always takes me places.

Now that I’m…well…of an undisclosed age, I find myself nostalgically turning to songs that are older, songs from when I was…well, not of such an undisclosed age. Now, lest I make myself sound like I’m of an undisclosed age, I won’t talk about how that music had poetry and passion that “today’s music” just doesn’t have. I’ll just say that…man, that stuff really takes me back.

On the drive home one night this week, I was rocking out to Meatloaf. Fascinating music, his…I’d love to see academic papers on the theology of his music, because it’s dripping with metaphor and a general questioning of life. One of his songs, Objects In The Rear View Mirror, is a powerful retrospective on the emotional events of one’s life. I typically relate to the third verse, which talks about that first passionate romantic relationship that we all remember from some point in our past. The first verse, though, is about a childhood friend who died far too young, and the fact that the singer is still haunted by the memories of that missed friend.

And the song takes me back…

When I was in elementary school, somewhere around third grade if memory serves, I had a friend. Well, I had more than one friend, several of whom remained my group of friends all the way through until middle school, but this one I vaguely remember. I’m not even entirely certain about his name, but I’ll omit it here, in any case. I know that he hung out with us and that our play was very imaginative. I remember that he was new to the school that year, and that he had clicked with us early in the new semester.

I grew up in a rural area, where there were a lot of farms and other rural vocations. I came to school one day to hear in hushed tones that our friend had “passed away.” I don’t remember all the details of how we were told, but I remember finding out that a large farm tractor had rolled over, trapping our friend beneath it and killing him quickly.

I also remember having only a very brief conversation with my parents about it, and moving on. It had left my mind by the end of that year, by the end of that semester. I’m sure that there was some intentional effort to let it drift from memory on the part of the school administration in order to avoid re-traumatizing us, but, overall, after the initial surprise, I really didn’t think about it again. My friend had died, and I moved on.

My first career after college, and the career in which I remained for over a decade, was behavioral health. Part of that career was spent doing emergency services work, in which I did things such as hospital consultations and the like. I met people at their lowest points, and tried to help them resolve their situations. I worked out of a satellite office for our agency most of the time (it was literally a five-minute commute from my apartment…that would definitely beat my current commute). One of our administrative staff worked every Friday in that satellite office, helping our regular office administrator catch up on what was always a backlog of paperwork. One afternoon, the regular front office person ran back through hallway calling for help. One of my co-workers ran to the side of the here-every-Friday staff, who had collapsed in the front office. I grabbed a phone to call 9-1-1. They were there amazingly fast (I remember wondering how they had arrived so quickly), but my co-worker, whose pleasant demeanor had always cheered us, never awoke. I didn’t see her fall, but I witnessed the failed attempts to revive her, the rushing her out to the waiting ambulance. Then I worked the rest of the week as I always did. I moved on.

I trouble myself sometimes with the way in which I can distance myself from tragedy. It’s not as though I don’t feel the impact of loss, or mourn. Certainly I have and I do. I remember, though, when my grandmother passed, that it took weeks for the emotional response to finally catch up with me. When it did, it passed and I found myself moving on. I miss her, I do. I wish that she could have seen our daughter. But, I’ve moved on.

Ironically, I have issues moving on that easily in matters of life that are of arguably much less importance.

Back in those days, back when I did that work in that career that required me to be able to handle what shocked most others deeply, I considered it a positive attribute that I could handle those sorts of stressors easily. Now, I wonder if my handling them so easily is healthy at all. I move on quickly…I suppose that’s a good thing. I just wonder if I’ve truly dealt with what’s happened in the past. One of our family values when I grew up was to put conflict behind us quickly and move forward. I fear sometimes that I’ve generalized that too much, and that I move forward too quickly, before I’m ready to do so.

And I wonder, at times, how this bodes for my future. Or, if it really is a healthy thing that I move forward, and only have nostalgic recollections on occasion.

Objects in the rearview mirror may, after all, appear closer than they are.

Image attribution: A Gude under Creative Commons.

Determination Through Sleep-Fogged Eyes

Clock on East Montague (photo by South Charleston via Flickr, licensed under Creative Commons)

I’ve been referred to as stubborn, but I absolutely refuse to accept this despite evidence to the contrary.

Let me set the stage a bit.

I recently made a career change. I make websites (yes, I know, this one needs a face lift, and it’s on my to-do list, I promise). As I make my living doing a mix of contract and freelance work, I go to several professional networking events. I also do applied theatre work. I’m also still a writer…no, really, I even published something recently…and we have a beautiful two-year-old daughter. The end result is that I’m always, always stretched for time.

Now, I don’t pretend to be any more stretched for said time than anyone else out there. We’re all way too busy for our own good. Over the weekend, I stepped out onto our balcony into a brisk Autumn morning with a steaming cup of coffee in hand to breathe in a relaxing few breaths. I used to spend 20-30 minutes doing this, especially on weekends. This was the first time in weeks, and it lasted about three minutes before I was called back into action as Daddy. I tried to get up early to do some reading and praying…it lasted for a week or so. Mostly, I find that the only way that I accomplish what I need to accomplish with my day is to force myself to stay up late, even though I know that I have to rise early tomorrow morning to negotiate an always-interesting commute into Boston.

Thus, I am always, always tired.

Now, the most logical thing to do would be to go to bed and catch up on some sleep. Unfortunately, nothing gets done when this happens: I let client deadlines get dangerously close, I allow my writing to languish (as evidenced by the digital sagebrush that’s blown across this space for the last week or so). Of course, eventually I’ll become so tired (I’m yawning as I write this) that I won’t be able to do anything well, and my hand will be forced as I collapse into the beckoning covers of our most-inviting bed.

It’s not just about finishing what I have to do, though. It’s about doing what I want to do. I want to spend time with our daughter, so I’m intentional about that. I want to spend time reading books, and maybe watch an occasional movie. If all I do is work, come home and crawl into bed only to repeat the cycle the following day, then I don’t think that’s living. I guess I’m radical in the sense that I think employment is there to serve the person working rather than the person existing to serve the employment.

So, is that being stubborn? Or are my intentions, at least, if not my practical applications, in the right place?

Or am I just suddenly very horrible at time management?

Time will tell…

Image attribution: North Charleston under Creative Commons.

Labor Day Trip

Last weekend was a holiday weekend in the U.S., Labor Day, a day which was originally intended for those in professions like customer service and retail to have a day off (my feelings about how its anything but that is the subject of another post). We Americans recognize Labor Day as the unofficial end of summer, as many public school systems start soon after that weekend if they already had not, and the weather begins to be cooler as we enter September.

For the long weekend, Karen and I had planned a final beach excursion for the summer. I’m thoroughly enjoying the fact that we can now be at the coast in 40 minutes or less, and our daughter has shown an early love of the water. Still, cold weather comes early to New England, so there won’t be many of these day trips left (true New Englanders call it “cool” now, but this is one of the ways that I can’t help but reveal that I’m a transplant).

We knew that our planned beach trip was off when we awoke to a steady rain on Monday morning, and so we set out to find other activities that we could do with our daughter (to whom I was already having to explain that she wouldn’t get to go to the beach as planned…did I mention she’s not yet two?). After realizing that lack of reservations and other logistical issues were ruling our some museum trips that we wanted to take, we had resigned ourselves to catch up on some reading when it happened. Our daughter, enthusiastically racing across the living room to show me something, tripped, and went full-tilt and face-first…or, more precisely, nose-first…into the sofa.

Now, I’m usually the excitable parent, while Karen is the calm and unshakable one. I’m the one who is generally ready to go to extreme solutions while Karen is the one shaking her head and telling me that said extreme solution isn’t necessary (I once wanted to call Poison Control because she put a sticker in her mouth. Don’t judge, okay? I’ve never done this parenting thing before). So, when Karen succinctly indicated that medical attention was likely warranted, I knew that I was correct in my assumption that we had a situation on our hands.

And, so, Labor Day 2013 saw our daughter’s first injury-related rush to an urgent care. Not an awesome way to spend the day.

It turns out that, as bad as it looked, there was nothing there that a cold pack, Tylenol, and some TLC wouldn’t cure. In fact, our daughter woke the next morning to tell me first thing that “My boo-boo feels much better” (did I mention she’s not yet two??).  Insert enormous sigh of relief here. I was thinking, though, that, as much of a bummer as it was to spend our Labor Day in such a way, it was much more tragic for our little girl. She was having a grand time running and playing and showing us things that she could do and build with her toys, when her grand time came to a screeching halt by a mere mis-step. Six inches the other way, and what had painfully disrupted her entire day would simply have been another toddler’s fall. There’s something absolutely heart-breaking about the entire situation when I pause to see this from her tiny perspective.

Many things change, I’ve found, when viewed from her perspective. Monday’s lost plans wouldn’t have been nearly as sad had the day not involved an injured little girl. It’s one of those ways in which being a father has changed me. I’ve never found myself so easily seeing the world from someone else’s point of view before now.

Something equally as huge is the way in which having a daughter makes me self-aware. I see myself through her eyes, as the superhero who can fix anything…any broken toy, the shoe that gets stuck and she can’t take off on her own. I’m the one who will carry her up the steps that she’s too tired to climb. In her words, “Daddy will fix it.” I’m in no way worthy of that adoration.

Both of these awarenesses…seeing the world and seeing myself from her perspective…has changed me a great deal as a human being.

The result is humbling in ways that I can’t even find words to write.

Un-Packing

Dave, you ask, why is it that you haven’t posted anything for nearly a week?

You weren’t asking that? Oh, well…just pretend that you were for a moment and I’ll humor you with a response.

You see, we’ve been moving.

Again.

I wrote more than one post about the apartment in which we lived for several years in Virginia. I still miss it, actually, because so many huge events in our lives occurred there, not the least of which was the fact that it was where we brought our daughter home to after she was born. I’ve never experienced an emotional problem moving from one apartment to the next in my life, but that particular time I did. We packed our lives in a truck and off to New England we drove, where I have since gone to school for a quick certification and changed careers. That was the first time we had moved in at least four years. That was one year ago.

In that year, we’ve moved two more times. Three moves in one year, one of which was a state-to-state move. First we lived with some family (there comes an age in one’s life beyond which you shouldn’t try that…), then a tiny little apartment reminiscent of our first apartment together that barely fit our basic necessities, and now, finally, into a nice, full-sized place again. I feel as though I can breathe for the first time in a year.

I also feel more than a bit discombobulated.

I’ve always believed that where you are is more that just where you are. Where you live molds some part of who you are, and certainly has had it’s role in molding who Karen and I are as a couple, and now as a family of three. We’re choosy about where we live (which is part of what made the last year so stressful, because being a full-time student drastically limits your ability to be choosy), and choosing to conform our lives to environments that were inhibiting to that negatively impacted us emotionally and spiritually. Such is the sacrifice of going to school, but I hadn’t anticipated that it would be nearly as difficult as it was with a family.

This week, however, though completely exhausted, I’m feeling, for the first time in a year, a sense of normalcy in our lives. As more of our furniture arrives from storage and we can place more and more books back onto shelves and art back onto walls, I begin to feel like Karen and I are regaining a huge part of us to which we haven’t had easy access for a long time. Again, it was a sacrifice, and one that has ultimately paid off, as education always does. I’m just very glad that it’s over.

I’m also very glad that I have hauled my last heavy load upstairs for at least a few days.

And, as the dust settles and my back-aches go away, I’ll be writing more regularly here soon.

A Theology of Potential

I’ve never been a great lover of tradition. That’s not really breaking news to anyone who’s visited this space for very long. This fact, though, makes me a bit of a contradiction at times. One of the ways in which I push back on tradition is the way in which I feel compelled to practice my faith. This has actually caused a bit of tension at times, because Karen gravitates toward more traditional, liturgical settings, which tend to leave me dead in the proverbial water. We’re still sort of working on reconciling that.

What makes this contradictory for me is that I view a great deal of life, including my faith practices, through the lens of theatre. Theatre was the first art form in which I found a natural fit. My experiences designing, directing, and acting in different shows molded the perspective that I have on a great deal of life. I can’t separate my philosophical or theological views from that lens. Theatre is, in true Burkian fashion, the way in which I understand every other discipline that I’ve practiced.

How is that contradictory? The very liturgical practice that I find so numbing is actually quite theatrical. It is the kinesthetic acting out of different aspects of my faith during a worship service. The presentational aspects (humorously referred to as “smells and bells” by some), the orally interpretive performance of the script, the choreographed actions, all are quite theatrical at their core. So, why am I not drawn to them?

What’s interesting is that I am quite drawn to theatrical presentations in a worship setting. I spent years directing, acting, writing, and even teaching acting methods in the context of a faith community. That time taught me so much about myself and about my faith. That particular faith community presented very theatrically during a worship service, but in a different way. Sets were constructed. Lighting was designed. When the performance began, the house lights went down and the stage lights up. Every component of the morning was carefully rehearsed. I can honestly say that I had never felt so at home in a worship service prior to experiencing that.

Karen is quick to point out that the architecture in a more traditional setting…that is, a more liturgical setting…is just as theatrical, just as full of meaning. I don’t contradict that at all…it is all exploding with meaning when you learn what to look for. What bothers her about the type of setting I’ve just described as being so comfortable to me, though, is the absence of light. She thrives in the brightness of the artistry of stained glass windows, permitting the natural light from outside to bathe the congregants during the course of the worship service. The darkness of the more theatrical setting that I found so welcoming bothered her a great deal, and she pointed out that the symbolic nature of the congregants entering darkness was sort of opposed to the faith they were there to express and explore. She makes a valid point. For me, though, it was a performance venue that was, quite simply, what I knew. The darkness for the audience didn’t bother me at all.

Several weeks ago, though, I had an interesting experience. I attended a worship service at the invitation of some family members. The building was quite traditional. The windows in the sanctuary were tall and ornate, yet had been curtained off to make the sanctuary darker and assist in setting the stage for a more theatrical presentation of music and media. I was bothered by this, and actually found it to be quite a downer. This made no sense to me. A dark setting had never bothered me before. Why should it do so now?

The only conclusion to which I can arrive is that I was bothered by the absence of potential light. There was light that should have naturally been pouring through those windows, but that had been stifled. This held the same theological and symbolic trouble for me that having the audience in darkness as the house lights went down held for Karen. I’ve never been bothered by a sanctuary designed like a performance venue because I know what to expect.  There is no potential light except for what has been designed as part of the performance. The potential and the actual experience are the same. The potential of the curtained windows, though, had been cut off and never realized. I felt as though something important had been taken away, even if it took me days to determine what that had been.

Funny that I now understand experientially exactly what Karen has expressed for years since we’ve been married…even if it took a completely different experience for me to get there.