LOADED WITH GOOD LIFE

This morning I noticed Delycia’s tall sunflowers all folded over and drooping down with the weight of their seeds, and they seemed, as I studied them, to represent the loads of good life that lean down on all things these days. Many lawns, for instance, seem well-stocked with healthful grass, and trees are loaded with the luxury of leaves and seeds. Often, as was true yesterday, the sky seems laden with puffed-up clouds, and even the slice of the moon these nights might seem unusually overloaded with light. It’s true for me, also, although I sometimes don’t notice it – don’t notice the goodness this world is full of, don’t feel the overflow of kindheartedness and courage all around me, don’t see the spilling over of startling occurrences, second by second. Just now a tufted titmouse twirled in the air near the feeder for a few seconds, a small, full bundle of spinning feathers, just one sample of the miracles that make autumn – and sunflowers – almost sag with prosperity and splendor.       

TRAFFIC LIGHTS AND TRUMPETS

     As I sat in my college classroom last night while the students were quietly writing, I heard the hum of the heating system as it quietly did its work, and it started me thinking about two other “systems” that are special in usually unnoticed ways. First, there’s the system of traffic lights along the roads I travel each day – lights that allow me to easily and safely fulfill my daily responsibilities. I seldom give them a thought, those green and red and yellow signals that assist me in living my life with efficiency. They’re always there, shining at intersections in their trustworthy way, doing their duty dependably to get me where I need to go. I also thought, as I was watching the students write, about the sound system at the Navy base where I teach my evening classes. At the moment of sunset, my students and I stop what we’re doing to respectfully listen to a recording of a trumpet melody heard every evening at military bases around the world as our flag is ceremoniously lowered. On the base where I teach, a recording of a trumpet playing the tune is sent out through a system of speakers to the entire naval community, and for those few moments, everything, including an English class, comes to a silent stop as all flags on the base are lowered. We may be in an intense discussion about a short story or a writing assignment, but the discussion dutifully pauses when the sound system sends one of our country’s most cherished pieces of music out across the darkening streets and lawns and classrooms of the base.  

FRIENDSHIP

He was looking at a picture

of his son hugging his grandson,

and soon he picked up a pencil

and held it with care.

He turned it in his fingers

and examined the black lead

at the tip. He touched

the piece of paper with the lead

and led the pencil softly

across the paper to the edge

and then started again

at the left side.

The pencil left words

resting on the paper,

side by side in companionship.

SOME SHADOWS

         On the windowsill of my small study, there are a few figurines of my literary heroes (Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, among others), and yesterday morning I noticed the shadows cast by the figurines on the wall by the morning sunlight. Not only did I notice the shadows, but I actually studied them for a few minutes, just watching the way they shook and swayed on the wall as the leaves outside the window wavered in the morning breezes. There I was, sitting at my desk, motionless and sort of mesmerized by these small, trembling shadows. The shadows were nothing, actually, just short-lived flickerings of light and darkness, but for a few minutes this morning they were more important than anything I had come to my desk to do.

CAPRICIOUS LEAVES AND THOUGHTS

"Autumn Leaves", oil,
by Kevin Inman

Today I was watching a few leaves seemingly idling in the air as they let themselves slowly down to the ground, and it reminded me of the way my mind sometimes seems to linger and dawdle and wander with any winds of thoughts that waft through it. It usually annoys me to see this kind of capriciousness in my thinking, but strangely, it seems almost pleasing to see these little autumn leaves straying aimlessly around and finally settling haphazardly and messily on the grass. The leaves take lazy routes as they fall, and my mind, too, occasionally sidles around and around as it works its way through some issue. I wonder: Why should the whimsicality and waywardness of my mind be any less enjoyable to watch than the falling leaves I saw floating casually among the trees surrounding our house?

APPLES AND GIFTS

“My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit.”

      -- Christina Rossetti, “A Birthday”

 I’m thinking of apples these days, now that mature ones by the millions are moist and bright on branches all over New England, and I’m also thinking of those of us who feel lucky to be loaded with the gifts received in a long life. Apple trees are giving us apples these days, and some of us feel fortunate to be able to give back to others some of the presents life has given to us in our 65+ serendipitous years. I’ve survived to 71 because countless numbers of people prepared my way and then worked beside me to make sure I stayed on course. The gifts I’ve been given, like our east coast apples, are far too many to be counted, but they don’t have to be counted, just given back with gratitude. Trees give apples; I give thanks.   

A SWEET-TEMPERED AFTERNOON

"Mystic River", oil,
by Roxanne Steed

     Today, as I was watching some birds bringing seeds back and forth from the feeder to a bush close by, I happened to also read these words from a poem by Tennyson: “To watch the long bright river drawing slowly/His waters from the purple hill.” We live a block away from the Mystic River, and it was almost as if I could see the river at that moment, making its easy way out to the sea on this soft and sleepy afternoon. I saw the birds brightening their day with sunflower seeds, and I saw in my mind the sweet-tempered river “drawing slowly [its] waters from the purple hill[s]” of Mystic and from the measureless sea close by.  

ON SECURITY

     At the Navy submarine base in Groton, CT, where I teach an evening English class, there’s an increased concern about security these days, which has served to remind me that the search for absolute personal security is a futile endeavor. Of course, it’s important to take precautions against the possible dangers in my life, but it will never be able to save me from every single one of the little and large perils that are part of living a full life. Collapses and crashes and breakdowns are built into life like darkness is built into each day, and no number of defenses and fortifications will fully protect me from all of them. The best I can do is take practical precautions day by day, and then live like I love every minute of life. When disaster comes, I hope I’ll speak to it with audacity, but until then, I’d rather risk it and dance with a few dangers than encircle myself with sentries.       

ABOUNDING

"Summer Path", oil
by Thaw Malin III

     “Abound” is a word that isn’t often used in writings and conversations these days, but this morning it seemed surprisingly suitable. For instance, from our sunroom, where we were having breakfast, I could see a sky abounding in blueness, seemingly overflowing with shades of azure and sapphire. Also, the trees around the house abounded in bright sunlight. They seemed almost crowded with light, as though the sunshine was packing the trees as tightly as possible. And I might add that Delycia and I, as we enjoyed our omelets and coffee, were abounding in feelings of simple good fortune. You might say our life these days teems with peacefulness. The hours seem positively stuffed with satisfaction. Yes, like all of us, we do sometimes face difficulties, but they are usually easily neutralized by the pleasing quietness that crowds, and abounds in, our days and nights.  

INFINITE ABILITIES

     I recall a friend once telling me that the weather has what he called “infinite abilities” to surprise us. He said there’s no limit to what the weather can do, because it doesn’t grow weak and weary like we do. This morning I was thinking about what he said, and it started me wondering if we, too, might actually have some infinite abilities – the ability, for instance, to bring a little brightness to others, or the ability to be brave when life breaks down, or the ability to believe in kindness when cruelty seems in control the world over. I, for one, am weary of the limiting outlook on life – the view that we can have only so much satisfaction or whole-heartedness or amazement in our lives, that these qualities come only in small servings and will sooner or later lessen and shrink away. I’ve known people who paid tribute to the good gift of life even when suffering severely, even when hope held out no hand. Was their cheerfulness and inner liveliness limited? Did they see their supply of helpfulness and benevolence as being insufficient, restricted, scanty? To them – and to me – a quality like the ability to be taken aback by the beauties of this universe is without limits. When the door of death swings open for me, I hope I’m able, even then, to be astonished by the mysteries of all things. I hope I can still shout, at least in spirit, some words of praise for the gifts I’m given each moment. 

A LITTLE APPLAUSE AND ACCLAIM

     In the “Silver Sneakers” senior citizen exercise class Delycia and I are taking, we occasionally hear shouts of praise from our instructor, and it’s surprising to me how heartening that can be. When I’m struggling to send my arms and legs where they’re supposed to be going, when my feet can’t seem to find a way to work appropriately, and when the thought crosses my mind to simply make an end to this nonsense, I sometimes here a strong “Good work!” from the front of the room, or a sincere-sounding “Nice job, everyone!” Our teacher’s working hard herself in front of us to do the exercises she asks us to do, but she seems to understand that part of her work is to praise her students. She knows, I guess, that nothing lifts a disheartened spirit like a little applause and acclaim. Indeed, it was amazing to me how a few forceful words of commendation could create a wind of purpose and desire where there was only the weariness of discouragement. I started listening for her light-hearted, uplifting words. When I was winded and wheezing, I waited, and some shout of honest support from this stirring teacher usually came.  

AN ADMIRER BY NATURE

“Mr Borthrop Trumbull [an auctioneer] had a kindly liquid in his veins; he was an admirer by nature, and would have liked to have the universe under his [auction] hammer, feeling that it would go at a higher figure for his recommendation.”

   -- George Eliot, Middlemarch

Years ago I knew a man who was bedridden with a gruesome disease, but somehow, to my amazement, he was able to be what Eliot’s auctioneer was, an admirer by nature. He told me he had only so many years left to live, only so many minutes in which to admire the world around him or heap scorn upon it, and he chose to admire. He said it’s exhausting to constantly find fault with what’s happening, and he would rather relax in his admiration for the gifts this world gave him than wear himself out with complaining. Looking back, I guess he was lucky to have, like Borthrop Trumbull, “a kindly liquid in [his] veins”, an approving and thankful nature that found something to praise in just about everything. Yes, he knew there was evil in the world, and there was failure and insufficiency and malfunction, and there were disappointments and duds aplenty, but he also knew, as he often told me, that there are so many more successes and wonders and heroes. He said that finding fault in everything is like seeing flaws in sunrises, or getting a gift of a great amount of money and making a fuss because it’s not $2.00 more. He said he would rather work his hardest to find some satisfaction in his situation than rage against it. Life, he said as he struggled to sit up in his bed, is far too short to spend it in grumbles and grievances. There’s sunshine to be seen in even the darkest days, and, from the bed he was confined to, he was out to find it.  

THE DISREGARDED

Lately, I’ve been noticing, and thinking about, people who don’t seem to be winners. I pass them each day – the people with forlorn looks and stooping shoulders, those for whom life seems to be an overwhelming weight. I see them in the news – the increasing numbers of those with no job, the vast numbers of impoverished families, the millions of forsaken refugees. They seem to be ever-present, these people who carry such distressing burdens on their shoulders, who seem to have simply lost the game of life. Sadly, when I was teaching, I saw them in my own classes, too, though certainly not to such extremes. I saw the kids who had no friends, who spent recess by themselves, lost in their own breakable worlds. I saw the students who never seemed to “make it” in school, the ones who got C’s semester after semester, who never seemed to be “winners” at anything. Sadly, it’s so easy to fail to notice these kids. The winners -- the ‘A’ students, the class leaders, the well-liked kids -- take up so much of the spotlight that the ordinary, everyday students often get left outside of the light. Like the outcasts of the world – the homeless, the poor, the peculiar – these disregarded students, I guess, must always struggle by themselves to bring some small, unnoticed distinction to their lives.

ONE STUDENT'S FIRST DAY

     On this, the first day of classes at my former school, this freshly retired teacher was a struggling new student at a different kind of school. For far too long this morning, my wife and I worked as hard as I’ve ever worked at learning something new, and, looking back, it looks like I was strictly a C student. The school was the Westerly YMCA, and the class was called “Silver Sneakers”, a name that doesn’t come close to suggesting the kind of mystifying exercises I was called upon to carry out. This was a class advertised as a relatively unproblematic approach to conditioning for seniors, but, to me, that’s a little like saying hikes in the White Mountains are promenades in the park. From the first minute, I felt like I was 14 again and floundering in a class beyond my skills. As the skilled and spirited teacher called out commands, I stumbled and fumbled and flayed around. When she wanted our feet to move to the right, mine went left; when my hips were supposed to swing in circles, they threw themselves back and forth like total flops as hips. It was like 9^thgrade math class all over again: I couldn’t understand the teacher’s sentences, everyone but me was making it seem easy, and all I wanted was to stay out of sight in the far back and break free from that room as soon as possible. I was an unsure and confused student, like maybe a few million others in these early weeks of school. My message to other befuddled students: Stay brave. If a furrowed old fellow like me can learn something new, so can you.   

WORDS AND CLASSROOMS

     “In the beginning was the word” is a Bible phrase that always seemed strangely associated with my duties as a teacher, and today, as my former colleagues look forward to launching a new school year tomorrow, I’m thinking of how lucky they will be to feel the force of words in their classrooms. I guess we could say that words stand at the beginning of all things in classrooms. All lessons, exercises, readings, writings, quizzes, tests – all discussions, debates, arguments, speeches, lectures, comments, and remarks start with the force of a few words. Even the thousands of thoughts that arise during a given class period are constructed with words, as buildings are built with boards and stones and steel. Words are a sort of camouflaged force in the classroom, a force that kindles thoughts and carries conversations, a force that stands ready at the starting line of everything teachers and their students do. In fact, it has always seemed to me – and I often shared this with my students – that students and teachers do business with the strongest power in the universe. All wars start with words, as do all friendships, adventures, transformations, and triumphs. A world without words is a garden without daylight, a seed without soil. I’m grateful that I found myself, for 45 years, surrounded in the classroom by the everlasting liveliness of words, and tomorrow I’ll think happily of the teachers in my former school as they and their students set forth on another educational mission, with the steadfast assistance of spirited and inspiring words.

 

IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

"Sunset at Little Salmon, Yukon",
watercolor, by Jackie Irvine

            Yesterday, a friend told me he was recently hiking in a forest and soon found himself, as he said, “in the middle of nowhere”, and it reminded me of a somewhat strange hope I always have when I start reading a book or a poem. As surprising as it may sound, I hope I will feel somewhat lost as I read. I hope I often feel befuddled, dumbfounded, and startled by what I am reading. If, when I’m reading a short story, I feel, for awhile, like I’m “in the middle of nowhere”, I say good for me, for then I might have the stirring experience of finding my way to somewhere. We often forget that in order to experience illumination we have to first be in darkness – that the contentment of new knowledge can only come after the discontent of ignorance. If I’m never “in the middle of nowhere” when I’m reading a poem, how can I ever feel the thrill of finding the somewhere of the poem’s heart and soul? In a sense, reading, for me, is about walking into darkness so I can better appreciate the light when it comes. For that reason, I guess I don’t especially enjoy the “easy” books I sometimes read – books that are filled, you might say, with easily noticeable light – because then very little finding, unearthing, uncovering, or stumbling upon is possible. I take the most pleasure in books that puzzle me with their shadows and obscurity, and in poems that sometimes conceal their meanings in an exciting kind of darkness, because then, there’s always the possibility of some sudden and even spectacular light ahead.