DANCING ON A RACQUETBALL COURT

 The other day, after working out at the Y with Delycia, I was waiting for her near the indoor racquetball courts, when suddenly she swept around a corner with one of her irresistible smiles and said, “Let’s practice our swing moves in here.” “Here” was one of the racquetball courts, and before I could present a protest, her friendly persuasion had me on the court and we were swaying and swinging where racquetballs usually fly. The only music was in our heads, and it must have been good stuff, because our moves, I thought, were among our best ever. We’re very new to dancing, and there are stumbles among our swings, but as long as a racquetball court at the Y is available, we’re going to grow as smooth senior-citizen dancers.  

TRAUMA ON THE DANCE FLOOR

"Let's Dance", oil,
by Delilah Smith

 Last Friday, Delycia and I attended our first “practice dance” at the Fred Astaire Studio in Mystic (CT), and it was a tense and almost traumatic experience for me. I do love dancing with Delycia, and I definitely feel like I’m slowly learning the basic steps and movements, but Friday night I felt like I was suffering through 9^th grade math class again. I seemed to have no idea how to do what was being asked of me, just as I usually felt in math class. Strobe lights were shaking across the dance floor, the music seemed to be shouting, and, for some reason, I suddenly lost everything I had learned in our dance lessons. The basic box step seemed impossible, and the swing steps caused me to stumble against my graceful partner again and again. Every so often, our instructor rushed up excitedly and asked how I was doing, and I’m sure my smile was colorless and scared-looking as I said, “Just fine”, which is what I always said when my math teacher asked the same question. It was a strained and anxious few hours for me, except, thankfully, for the occasional slow dances, when I simply snuggled as close as possible to Delycia and we became two kids just coming together in love.

     Don’t for a minute think I’m going to give up. In the coming months and years, I am determined to make myself into a suave senior-citizen dancer worthy to waltz and swing with my gorgeous girlfriend.    

JOURNAL

- last night, we attended a practice dance at the Fred Astaire studio, and it was a hard time for me - felt like I was back in 9th grade math class, clueless as to what was happening - BUT . . . I’m in this for the duration, and I plan to become a fine dancing partner for my honey -

- today, another frigid, windswept one – temps in the teens and low 20s – worked out with Delycia at the Y after breakfast, riding the recumbent bike and reading “Far from the Madding Crowd” (and loving it) – after the workout, Delycia dragged me (well, almost) into an empty squash court and we practiced swing dance moves for a few minutes – I didn’t really enjoy it, but I WANT to learn to dance with her, so practice has to be done – quiet afternoon by the fire, reading more of “Madding” – talked with Jamie this evening, a good chat and we hope to do more in the future – light snow falling at 7:47 pm – snowplow just passed by – time for wine, cuddles, and sleep -

WELCOMING THOUGHTS

Delycia and I welcome people into our home every so often for tea or dinner, and I am realizing that I should be more welcoming to the thoughts that move past the home of my mind. A steady line of thoughts constantly passes through my life, and I am trying to learn to welcome them all, even those filled with fear or dismay or discouragement. What I am slowly understanding is that my thoughts are not me, but simply frail and short-lived whispers that will slip smoothly away if I just stand aside, observe them in a welcoming way , and then let them quietly leave. I could welcome thoughts of fear, for instance – politely listen to them, let them take their time passing through, and then see them to the door and down the road. I’m learning that thoughts are as harmless as I allow them to be – simply evanescent voices that will soon disappear if I stand by with something like a smile.

SILVER AND GOLD

 I don’t have much money, and certainly no silver and gold, but I sometimes stop and consider – and marvel – at how really rich I am. Riding on this sleek, astonishing planet day after day is enough in itself to make a person feel affluent. I’m prosperous because this earth is prosperous. It overflows with wealth for me -- air to breathe, food to eat, and scenes more special than solid investments. Last evening, driving home, we saw something better than silver and gold – a line of soft clouds spread along the west as the sun was sinking. A recession can’t take that kind of wealth away. Beauty like that shines way brighter than a bank account.      

SIGNS AND WONDERS

 I saw some “signs and wonders” this morning, things that made my world seem sort of miraculous. They were the most commonplace things – the water that flowed from the faucet as soon as I turned the handle, the simple J.C. Penney socks I slipped on that seemed made to perfection, the toaster that popped up perfectly-prepared raisin toast. Sometimes, miracles seem to be everywhere. Thoughts, for instance, miraculously materialize in my mind, moment after moment, many thousands in a day, all seeming to sail in from nowhere. And my lungs, amazingly, have reliably lifted and fallen approximately 750,000,000 times in my lifetime, and are effortlessly doing it as I write this. Even the sunlight, which is now shining through our southern windows, is a wonder, a sign of the absolute charm of the universe, and of my life. Each day, one way or another, sunlight lights up my world – a daily marvel, a miracle among the many that seem to surround me.

SNOW, FLAMES, AND A PUZZLE

      Outside, a billion big snowflakes are floating down on our neighborhood, while inside our snug house, the flames of an inviting fire are fluttering and leaping in the fireplace. There’s a similar and lovely randomness in both – the snow sailing here and there and wherever, and the fire doing its dance in a thousand ways. There’s also a jigsaw puzzle on the table not far from the fire, and lately the pieces have seemed as haphazard as the flames and the snowflakes. I know, though, that they’ll all eventually fit together, just as the flames will eventually settle together into one smooth pile of ashes, and just as the snow, by sunrise, will be spread across the streets and yards in a single dazzling sheet.

HARDIHOOD AND GENTLENESS

“My knights are sworn to vows

  Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness.”

     - Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Idylls of the King”

    I have no shining armor and no one calls me a knight, but still, it’s easy to see the value in the vows “of utter hardihood [and] utter gentleness” that Tennyson speaks of. At first, the vows may seem at odds, since hardihood, or strength, might seem the opposite of gentleness, but then I think of the seaport near our house, where the gentle harbor water is strong enough to support schooners and submarines. Softly flowing streams are strong enough to slowly dissolve the biggest boulders in their path, which tells me that a gently spirited person can be as brave as a rock-hard warrior. Hardihood is toughness, and true toughness knows the power of gentleness. When you’re truly gentle, you can join hands with the truly heroic. You can be a secret knight of your neighborhood, a sweet-tempered but forceful fighter for peacefulness.  

JOURNAL

Saturday 1/18/14

"Crossing", oil,
by Delilah Smith

  - a day in the big city – Amtrak from Westerly – watching the coastline pass by – coffee from the dining car – from Penn Station a cold, happy walk 30 blocks up to Lincoln Center for “Die Fledermaus” – lovely, lively music and beautiful singing, but too much drunkenness – a leisurely walk under the lights of the city back to the station – dinner at Zaros at the station (we give it an A) – slow ride back on the train – full moon out the window – nightcaps for both of us, on the couch side by side – goodnight -

GLAD ALL MY DAYS

"Morning Train", oil,
by Laurel Daniel

 Riding home from the city on the train with Delycia, returning from seeing an opera at Lincoln Center, I’m thinking I should be glad all my days – not glad because great things are always happening (because they’re not), but glad for the gifts found, somehow and some way, in each moment. When I feel my life leading me from one problem to another, I can at least be glad for the gift of the problems, since problems can shine out like useful lights. In the midst of sorrow, I can at least be glad that a good breath of air is brought to my lungs each moment, and that a new morning always follows night. When a day seems more dark than light, I can at least be glad that I have eyes that can see both the darkness and the little but beautiful light.

A TALE THAT IS TOLD

"A Good Book", oil,
by Maryanne Jacobsen

It surprises me that I still sometimes consider my personal life so all-important, as though I am at the center of the universe’s show, when the truth is that my life is as brief as a passing shadow, as fleeting as a tale that is told. In the immeasurable history of the universe, my life span is a simple snap of the fingers, something that flashes and disappears in a small part of a second. It’s a bubble in the stream of time that bursts almost before the everlasting stars have seen it. This doesn’t mean my little life is insignificant – just that it’s not the center of things, not the axis around which the world revolves. Hamilton Salsich is a wave in the ceaseless river of the cosmos - a wave that’s special, yes, but no more so than a small mouse or the breeze that’s blowing past our house just now. I love my life, but I hope I can love it no more than I love other people’s lives, or the rolling river near our house, or the small birds that bring their beautiful lives to our feeders. It’s a little tale, this life of mine, a tale among countless other brief and wonderful tales the universe has been telling almost forever.       

BEING TOUCHED

      It’s wonderful that we can so often be touched by the world around us – touched by even the smallest flowers or faraway stars in the sky. Of course I’m thinking here of the non-physical kind of touching, the kind that causes us to say “I was touched by what he said” or “Her performance was very touching.”  We can be touched, in that sense, by the forlorn look on a face, or by a few beautiful words in a sentence, or simply by the rise and fall of a grief-stricken friend’s voice. It’s an invisible kind of touching, like unseen fingers pressing softly on our souls for a few seconds. Recently I gathered with a group of good friends, and I was deeply touched by their sorrowful but brave approach to some unfortunate news they had heard about a colleague. Their sorrow touched me, and so did their courage and wisdom. Their words were like hands held out to each other in solidarity, and I was touched by their sense of fellowship. Their thoughts and feelings were not physical, but they filled the room – and touched me – in an unforgettable way.   

THE STARTLED EARTH

"Earth and Sky", oil,
by Robin Weiss

      I wonder if the earth could be said to be startled sometimes, the way we are startled when something surprising happens. I wonder, for instance, if the earth is startled when a war breaks out across its surface, since, for most of its history, it has seen peace and unison holding sway. Yes, we humans have waged dreadful wars over the centuries, but their significance falls far short when compared to the innumerable but rarely publicized deeds done in the name of friendship and kindness. The violent wars have received the headlines, but the peaceful struggles for the well-being of all people, the calm and loving campaigns to make daily life a more satisfying experience for everyone, have been far more influential. For every act of violence, there surely have been numberless acts of compassion and mercy, and for every death on a battlefield, there have surely been billions of small but life-giving acts of goodness. Our earth has seen our heartlessness and brutality, but it has seen far more of our compassion and kindness. That’s why, in the midst of eons of constructive harmony among humans, it might be somewhat startled when a war breaks out. 

STANDING STILL

I should be standing still more often these days. I should stop doing things now and then and simply stay where I am in absolute stillness, like a tree that just stands where it is, or like birds that seemingly stay silently on wires and tree limbs for hours. Very few times in my life have I stood still just for the sake of the peace and serenity of it – just stopped doing things and simply looked and listened because it’s good to look and listen. Perhaps, in future days, I could occasionally stand in our backyard, silent and still for a few minutes, making myself truly see and hear what’s around me. Perhaps I could be like a statue in the sunshine, so hushed and stock-still the birds might bring themselves to rest in my shadow. I could be an old guy gone silent and stationary for once in his life, just breathing and looking and listening.

REHEARSING

      After Delycia and I returned this afternoon from attending an “open rehearsal” by the Eastern Connecticut Symphony (we’ll be going back to hear their performance tonight), I got to thinking about the importance of rehearsals in many aspects of my life. To rehearse is to practice a task in order to become competent in it, and there’s certainly many tasks in my life that need serious practice. Listening, for instance – just sitting still and honestly listening to someone – is a task I’ve been practicing – rehearsing – for years, and I’m still a sadly inferior listener. My thoughts often flow away in fifteen different dictions as someone is talking. My heart has the best intentions, but my mind frequently floats far off course from what’s being said. So, I need to practice – rehearse. Like a cellist or a horn player, I need to practice carefully and often, until listening closely to someone becomes unvarying and effortless for me. Tonight the orchestra members, after years of practice, will probably play with wonderful perfection, and someday – who knows – I may be a sincere and skillful listener.      

JOURNAL

 - quiet morning – worked on poems – sent four to The Missouri Review – fingers crossed – treadmill at the Y side by side with Cia – quiet reading – six pieces in the puzzle - two soups for supper – then an old Foyle’s War – 8:25 p.m. - 35° - sleep well friends -

MEEKNESS

 

"Bending with the Wind", oil,
by Laurel Daniel

A famous man once said that meekness in a person is a blessed thing, and I think I’m finally starting to see his meaning. It seems to me now, finally, that meekness is a strength instead of a weakness. In meekness, surprisingly, we sometimes stand up stronger than in assertiveness. When we bow, we sometimes win. Trees that survive are those that submit to strong winds instead of resisting them, and water almost always wins because it yields itself softly to obstructions. Meekness means a brave kind of obedience. Streams are obedient to boulders and flow effortlessly around them. Flowers are obedient to breezes and bow with ease and elegance. I am obedient to my heart and lungs and let them lead the way. In meekness we are mild in a daring way, gentle in just the way the strongest trees are.

JOURNAL

- pre-breakfast workout at the Westerly Y – after breakfast kissed my honey goodbye as she left with a friend for a hike in RI – continued working on editing and sorting my poems – sent 5 poems off to a journal - fingers crossed – listened to old swing music on Pandora - volume way up – sweet music for dancing – read some War and Peace – Cia (Delycia’s short name given by grandson Louie) back around 3  – tea and sharing – tasty leftovers for dinner – talk about retirement homes - far in the future, we hope – now 7:57 - 21° and clear - the clicking of Cia’s Kindle - the singing of the furnace – sleep well, friends - 

LARGE HONORS

      When a celebrity recently gave thanks for the “large honor” she had received, I started saying a silent thanks for all kinds of large honors I’ve received. Starting with my surprising presence on this startling planet in a snug house with a beyond-belief wife who, lucky for me, loves me -- what larger honor could I receive? And each morning I manage to wake up to a world of skies and trees and streets and houses and people and parades of endlessly strange present moments. Is this not a large daily honor for me? Also, I spent 45 years teaching teenagers, and I felt, from the start, that it was a high honor to walk into the classroom each morning. Each day, I felt like someone pinned an honorary medal on me and said, “You have been selected to receive the title of ‘Teacher of Teenagers’. Be grateful for this great honor.” I was grateful, always, and still am – grateful now, too, for the honor of being a bald, somewhat creased, but more-daring-and-cheerful-than-ever senior citizen. It is indeed an honor to be 72. I say to all those young 71-year-olds: Stay brave. One day you too might be honored with the shining “72 Years of Lucky Living” medal.  

GENTLE PRESENCE

 

"Last Days of Summer", acrylic,'
by Parastoo Ganjei

Like most of us, I have known some people who inspired me by just their gentle presence – there facility for somehow spreading mellowness around simply by being present. They don’t necessarily “do” anything – don’t speak about gentleness or show off their gentleness or even seem particularly peaceful. They simply, I guess, spread out gentleness the way a soft summer day spreads out warmth. These people carry kindness with then like a light that constantly shines when they are with us. Their understanding seems immeasurable, as if nothing can disturb it, and their compassion comes with a feeling of vastness and serenity. They bring the sweet-temperedness of a soft shift in the weather, sunshine after days of clouds. When they’re with us, their presence alone brings mildness and mercy. 

JOURNAL

Muddy Waters

frigid morning – worked on my poems in the morning – we did our workouts at the Y late morning, then Delycia took me out to lunch in New London at Muddy Waters, a place she discovered recently with a friend - loved the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the place – couches and soft chairs everywhere, and a view out back to the river – food was special, too – fine soup and plentiful sandwiches – back home, reading by the fire in the afternoon – put four pieces into our puzzle – 8 degrees now – sleep well, friends -

JOURNAL

"Getting Home", oil,
by Robin Weiss

fog in the yards and streets this morning – our streetlamp shone like a safety light for travelers – after breakfast we watched and listened to (on YouTube) Elgar’s cello concerto, getting ready for the Eastern CT Symphony Orchestra concert this Saturday – worked on my poetry this morning while Delycia did some errands, then a workout at the gym for both of us, then listened and watched Tchaikovsky’s 2^nd symphony, which will be on the program Saturday night – for dinner, delicious homemade soup (miso and artichoke hearts) by Delycia, then some quiet reading for both of us, War and Peace (me) and Jane Austen’s Persuasion (her) - 

FOG IN THE MORNING

"Fog in the Forest", oil,
by Randall David Tipton

The flog flowed in

and found him breathing deeply.

He did that sometimes,

just filled his lungs

and let the bountiful forces of life

flood through him,

like the fog unfurling

across the back yard just now,

just now when numberless wonders

are unrolling around the world

and he’s feeling something

overflowing through him

as he sits beside her

in the sunroom.

AT 8:42 A.M.

"Sink", oil,
by Nancy Spielman

He heard the humidifier misting

in its sunny way, and then the faucet

in the kitchen flowing freely,

and then some papers she was folding,

and then a voice message on her phone,

and then the furnace,

far off in the cellar,

saying all was warm and safe

and happiness is here.

72 GOING ON 16

I know I’m not really 16, not really a kid with a kid’s muscles and lungs, but I felt like it today as I shoveled snow from our driveway. The seven inches of snow was almost downy, so it sort of sailed off my shovel, making the work much easier than I had anticipated. I felt youthful and frolicsome as I swung the shovel back and forth, sending great sprays of snow into sizeable hills beside the driveway. I remembered all the cautions about senior citizens straining too much with a snow shovel, so I paused often, rested on my shovel, and savored the classic snowy scene around the neighborhood. When I finally finished completely clearing the driveway, I stood silently for a moment, and suddenly I was 16 again, back in Webster Groves, surveying a smoothly shoveled driveway before driving out to pick up my date.

Luckily, I’m actually 72 and had a gorgeous girlfriend waiting inside with a cup of hot tea.   

ONE-DAY BOOKS

THE PEARL, BY JOHN STEINBECK

Delycia and I promised ourselves several weeks ago that we will spend one day each month of 2014 reading a single book from start to finish, even if we have to read from dawn to dark. We thought it might be fun to immerse ourselves in a book for a single day, to saturate ourselves with it and slowly soak it up in an uninterrupted way. Of course, it’s fairly easy for us to do this in these retirement years. We can wake in the morning with no responsibilities other than to turn the pages of the book we’ve chosen for that day. We’re thinking of these special days as sort of one-day reading carnivals, non-stop festivals of sentences, day-long parties with plots and characters.

     Today we had fun with our first one-day book, John Steinbeck’s The Pearl. We read, paused to discuss, read some more, took notes, took some lunch, and let the last few pages linger along to the bittersweet ending. It’s a short book, a good way to start our year-long project. Next up, on February 5, is a surprise book for Delycia. Can’t wait for the party!