MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Yes, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,
A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, “Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, pray!”

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
Like weak, despised Lear,
A king, a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! O, the man gray
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,
To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter’s breath,
“Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!”

And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
“Vex not his ghost!”

Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!
For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;

And the stars, from heaven down-cast
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!

Brief Sabbatical

Sorry for the lag in posts. There are more to come, so please check in again next week.

The Passing of Another Year

Happy Birthday — to ME!

Yep, I’m rolling over another year today. It’s one of those “in-between” birthdays that draws no attention, and I’m just fine with that. Today is also Sting’s birthday. He and I may get together for cake later. Just so you know, I am a LOT younger than Sting. But he’s richer and better looking, so he gets the last laugh, huh?

Also celebrating birthdays today are my niece and the daughter of the girl with the brown eyes. So Happy Birthday to Amber and Ashleigh as well!

No introspection or philosophical meandering today. I am, after all, a mere day older than I was yesterday. Life is good. Should you have a beer or a glass of wine today, raise a glass to the birthday boy. And if you see Sting, tell him I said hello.

Libras and Fall

On my sidebar, perhaps you have noticed my link to a site entitled Hollywood: Where HOT Comes to Die. I found it a while back by accident and always find it entertaining. At the onset of each astrological sign, Suzy (the writer) posts a graphic summary of the traits considered typical of people of that particular sign. I refer to it this time simply because we are now under my sign, Libra. I know it’s just for fun, but check it out.

As I read the traits from Suzy’s graphic (from Clayboys), I must admit that some apply. I can be an escapist, and I am easily influenced at times. I am frequently over-bearing and impatient and self-indulgent, and on a bad day I am intolerant of criticism. The one that nails me, though, is “always undecided.” Yep. Or am I?

I do not, however, perceive myself as gossipy, flighty, gullible or narcissistic. And while I certainly have the necessary skills for being manipulative, I think that I have developed my personal integrity to the point that I would never permit myself to use those skills.

While certainly not science by any stretch of the imagination, astrology is often fascinating. I briefly dated a girl once who based every decision in her life on astrology and Joyce Meyer — a truly bazaar combination! Skeptical though I am, one aspect of my profile rings consistently true for me. Libra, as I understand it, is about balance — hence “The Scales.” As I hope my previous posts demonstrate, I do strive for balance in all things — including relationships. Should I, therefore, find a female Libra with whom to share my life? Opinions are welcomed.

Incidentally, I found another graphic (below, and also from Clayboys) that captures this particular Libra better. Yes, in true scientific method, I kept looking until I found one that I liked!

© 2003 Clayboys

Along with the sign of Libra comes the fall — autumn. It has always been my favorite season, and it makes me long for those parts of the country where there actually IS a fall. As for Florida, we are still hot and the colors change little — if any. Still, there is football and the assurance that cooler days and nights and clearer skies are coming. I find it easy to be optimistic in the fall. Or perhaps that is just the Libra-esque escapist in me talking!

For the Love of Joe!

In my younger days, I had a tendency to see routine as something to be avoided, even disdained. As time marches on, however, I have come to befriend routine as a shard of consistency in an ever changing world. It’s nice to be able to count on something. Among my most cherished routines is my morning coffee.

I started drinking coffee as a kid — six years old or thereabout. It was only a cup in the morning, diluted with milk and sugar. My real love affair with coffee didn’t start until college when I bought my own coffee maker and brewed the coffee myself. That action lead to experimenting with different brands of coffee and collecting mugs. My consumption increased to several cups on normal days and more on “cram days.” Moreover, I went from being a mere disciple to being a coffee evangelist, successfully converting several hard-core non-coffee drinkers to my caffeine-centric religion.

Several years later, while living in Louisville, KY, I befriended a Colombian woman who owned a coffee and tea shop in the mall where I worked part time while working on my Master’s degree. It was Claire who would contribute actual education to my long-standing affinity for coffee. It was also Claire who would banish forever my willingness to settle for grocery store brands of coffee as she introduced me to beans from around the world and to different harvesting and roasting techniques. Louisville was also home to the John Conti Coffee Company and Museum from which I honed the coffee education that Claire started.

Fast-forwarding now to the late 1990’s in Jacksonville, Florida, I was friends for several years with a young woman from Oregon — yes, the same woman who would eventually promise to love, honor and clean the kitty box once a day. One day she said, “I wish we had Starbucks in Florida.”

“Starbucks?” I replied. “What is Starbucks?”

She proceeded to tell me about a wonderful place that she enjoyed while living in Oregon and then San Diego. As she described it, there was a look in her eyes and a quality to her voice — like a druggie having a flashback. Shortly thereafter, Barnes & Noble opened a book store in my community. In that store was a Starbucks cafe. She introduced me to my first breve latte. The rest, as they say, is history.

Now, of course, we have a Starbucks on every corner — and they are all busy all the time. I have spent a fortune there myself. In fact, a few years ago I was going every day. Realizing just how much I was spending there, I decided to invest in one of their espresso machines so I could make the same drinks at home. Even at $450, I calculated that the machine would pay for itself in about 30 weeks. That was in the fall of 2002, and I still use it. Good investment.

What started when I was about six with a cup a day of sweet milky store-brand coffee has evolved into a daily morning routine of grinding espresso beans, steaming milk and brewing my own latte and sipping it while I do the morning crossword puzzle. When I crave regular coffee, I have a French press for that. Yes, it has gotten complicated — all part of the ritual and routine that drags me out of bed in the morning.

Addicted to coffee? I am. How about you? Click on the picture below for a short quiz to tell you how addicted to coffee you are. Try it. It’s fun. Happy sipping….

 

I am 69% Addicted to Coffee

The Treasure of Friendship (and When to Bury It)

Do not allow yourself to be imprisoned by any affection. Keep your solitude. The day, if it ever comes, when you are given true affection there will be no opposition between interior solitude and friendship, quite the reverse. It is even by this infallible sign that you will recognize it. — Simone Weil

“Am I simply…losing my whole self in it all?“ This was the question posed in a recent blog entry by my good friend and fellow blogger. It is a poignant question that has the potential for exposing the soul of one brave enough to ask it and then to honestly seek the answer. In her post, she addressed romantic interests as well as friendships, but the same line of inquiry applies equally to any relationship — marriage, family, friendship, employment, religion, and so on. At what point does blending in and being agreeable cross that line into betraying one’s core values and integrity? How many times should you “take one for the team” before standing up and saying, “I quit!”? To quote one of my own previous posts, how do you know when to close a door?

The answer to any of these questions, of course, is as individual as the person asking them. My recent experience has abounded with similar situations, mostly because I waited far too long before confronting them. (See this post as an example.) In my abundance of caution not to burn bridges prematurely, I have often permitted those bridges to stand long after they were obsolete and unsafe for my emotional travel. I’ve said it before: I value relationships. But it is only fair to insist that they be mutual and healthy to all parties — one of which is me.In the realm of dating and romantic relationships, we seem typically better able to take a stand. But what of other relationships? Friendships seem to give some of us fits. I would venture to say that friendships are the most important of all our relationships, agreeing with Elie Weisel when he said, “Friendship marks a life even more deeply than love. Love risks degenerating into obsession; friendship is never anything but sharing.” I note that he said “sharing,” but nothing of agreeing. So sharing what? I maintain that respect is the primary thing to be shared.

I look back and realize that many of my closest friends have been people with whom I agreed on very little. Three particular friends from college come to mind: Ken, Jeff and David. I had known Ken since the 2nd grade when we became neighbors and best friends. We went on to be roommates for two years at Furman. Since we have the same last name, many thought us to be brothers. David was my freshman roommate, and Jeff was the lovable and weird guy at the end of the hall. I don’t recall exactly how we met Jeff; he was just there one day and then every day thereafter. We all had some important elements in common. But we were vastly different in some critical ways. I recall many heated “debates” over such things as religion, politics, philosophy and so on. I’m sure they remember these as well. An onlooker may have suspected that violence was certain to ensue. But it never did. Respect was the glue that held these relationships together. The result: we learned from each other. I never fully adopted any of their views, but I did take parts of them and blended them into my own. I suspect they did the same, and we were all enriched.

The beauty, then, that friendship offers is the freedom to be oneself and to be respected and accepted for that, while extending the same freedom to the other person. And herein lies, in my estimation, the point at which so many friendships cease to be friendships. I think we figure this out by asking two questions: (1) What am I getting from this relationship? And (2) what is the other person getting from this relationship? The second is often the more revealing, especially if the answers are something like the following:

• This friendship benefits the other because I have a big screen TV and my friend doesn’t.
• This friendship benefits the other because I have a pool in my yard and my friend doesn’t.
• This friendship benefits the other by giving him (or her) someone to feel superior to (rightly or wrongly).
• And so on.

It happens. And when it does, we start to “lose our whole self in it all.”

What about the first question? I read a book recently that brought out the importance of taking inventory of how we’re feeling in different situations. The point was that we frequently are confused about what we think, but we always know clearly whether we feel good or bad — and our feelings give us insight into what we’re thinking. It makes sense, doesn’t it? My litmus test, therefore, is something like this: When with friends (or girlfriends, boyfriends, or whomever), what do you feel? If you’re feeling affirmed for who you truly are (or good), the situation is probably a good one for you, and the relationship is healthy. If you’re not feeling affirmed; or, even worse, if you’re feeling like you have to suppress yourself; or if you’re feeling judged or unfairly criticized on a regular basis (or bad), that relationship may have become toxic, causing you to feel your self becoming lost.

Friendship, I read, ultimately is “an equality made of harmony.” When either of those qualities fades, the friendship, in the truest sense, has ceased — much like a corpse waiting for someone to finally declare it dead. The absence of that declaration, however, makes it no more alive.

We evolve. Our relationships either evolve with us or they die. Shouldn’t we be okay with that? We divorce ourselves (too easily, perhaps) from spouses when it becomes evident that they no longer fit us. Sometimes we have to divorce ourselves from other relationships as well (friendships, jobs, etc.) that no longer fit us in order to be true to ourselves. That act doesn’t discount what was; it merely acknowledges that things have changed. W. Somerset Maugham wrote that “it’s no good trying to keep up old friendships. It’s painful for both sides. The fact is, one grows out of people, and the only thing is to face it.” While I do not agree in full with that statement, I think there occasions in which it is quite apt. On those occasions, I feel a moral responsibility to myself and to what I hold true to walk away, remembering with fondness what used to be, freeing myself from what has become so that I can face what is to be. (It won’t be easy.)

If I have said anything suggestive that I do not value friendship, please understand that quite the opposite was my intent. Nor am I advocating a “zero-tolerance” policy on selfishness lest I condemn myself as well as each of you. My purpose was to explore what friendship is and isn’t — a topic on which volumes have been written. Although this post has been “quote heavy,” I will close with yet one more. This one is from Henri Nouwen, a modern Dutch priest who, to me, brings good sense to matters that others tend to make muddy. On friendship….

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares. (Henri Nouwen)

Rainy Days and Mondays…

The melodic strains of the late Karen Carpenter came to my mind as I woke up entirely too soon this morning. Remember the song?

Hangin’ around; Nothing to do but frown. Rainy days and Mondays always get me down…

Today is a double-whammy: rainy AND Monday. And windy. It’s one of those late summer nor’easters that we have in Jacksonville sometimes. I normally don’t mind rainy days. Nor do I normally mind the arrival of Monday. The thing is this: My Sunday was terrible. I want to turn the clock back twenty-four hours and have another go at it, maybe make some different choices. As it stands, I was out of sync with the world yesterday. We all have those days, right? To make it worse, I encountered some unpleasantness — some ghastly behavior — and met it with less then stellar behavior of my own. I ended the day by going to bed emotionally drained but still upset — a fact that became too evident when I found myself awake this morning at 4:00 replaying the tape in my head and unable to go back to sleep. Outside my window the rain poured. It’s Monday! Please stop singing, Karen Carpenter!

On a more positive note, I spent Saturday with my daughter. She needed a dress for homecoming, so I took on the task of assisting. And by assisting, I mostly mean that I drove her to the store and kept the MasterCard loaded and ready. She did, however, model a few and ask for my opinion. Smart kid, huh? It was a busy day in the junior’s dress section as teenage girls from miles around shopped and tried on dresses, all while sending and receiving text messages on their cell phones. I was the only father in the place, so I felt like I stood out terribly. As I remained relaxed, taking it all in stride, the exasperated mothers looked at me and rolled their eyes as I smiled. To them, this event was another brick in the wall, I suppose. But to a single dad, this was quality time. And I sincerely mean that.

Alas, it is now Monday morning and time to get to work and on with a new week. I will allow the ugliness of yesterday to fade into oblivion while I hold on to the fun we had on Saturday. Now that I’m up and have had my latte, the sound of the rain in relaxing. I think it’s going to be a fine day, rain and wind and Monday notwithstanding.

Okay, Karen Carpenter, you can start singing again….

Saturation

Two days ago I ventured out and wrote a post about my 9-11 memories. I tried to keep it simple, limiting it to my own personal experience and immediate observations. Upon checking my site meter, I discovered that that post received more hits that any I had written to date. While that was gratifying, I was intrigued that only one reader posted a comment on the site. (Others, however, sent them by email.) I read a few other 9-11 postings and found a similar trend. Great stories, but few comments from readers. Have we become 9-11 saturated? I think so.I will confess that I reached my saturation point some time ago. My post on Tuesday, in fact, was the only time I have ever written of it in spite of the fact that I have many thoughts on the subject. But who doesn’t?

I read an editorial this week stating that 9-11 has been the “most exploited event in history.” A stark statement, yes. But I suspect that it is true. Differing takes on that day have fueled patriotism as well as what I deem “pseudo-patriotism.” Some have construed those events as a reason (or excuse) for distrusting, or even hating, anyone not born in America of parents also born in America. Some have used 9-11 as justification for war, murder, slander, and racism in general. Others have seen the tragedy as a call for change within our borders and beyond — and even within ourselves. Much has been constructive. Much has not. I wonder how many times the words “nine-eleven” will be uttered over the course of the presidential election. Too many? Probably. The words have become tantamount to an “invocation.” But what they really do is play on our already over-taxed emotions on the topic.

Lest I be misconstrued, I am NOT in any way suggesting that we no longer care. We certainly do — and should. I am merely suggesting that we be left to our personal memorials so that we can finally heal. That’s all.

While I’m on the subject of saturation, haven’t we also heard quite enough of Britney and Paris and Lindsay and other sad examples of celebrities behaving badly? And let’s not be too quick to blame the media. They only sell what we buy. Let’s resolve to attend to matters a bit more important. We do, after all, live in a society. Don’t we?

Six Years Ago Today

This is September 11th, 2007. We all have our personal stories about where we were and how we felt six years ago today. This is mine.

My office in the insurance company where I worked was at the back of the department. There was a considerable distance between me and my closest co-worker, so I was fairly isolated — a state I usually liked. The entire wall to my right was a plate glass window that overlooked a fountain and several hotels. Since I was on the 5th floor, the tops of the tallest buildings in downtown Jacksonville were visible on a normal day in the distance over the treetops. This was no normal day, even as it started around seven-thirty. It was a dark day, a stormy day. Massive black clouds hung low in the sky, and the air was thick — “tornado weather,” we would have called it in South Carolina where I grew up. I was glad to be inside. My still new bride, however, was traveling to an assignment at the King’s Bay Naval Base, a nuclear submarine station. She was a software instructor and consultant at the time.

Although the scene outside my window grew darker as the morning wore on, I was barely aware of it as I started my work day, doing my normal mundane chores of checking email, looking over news headlines on the Internet, and planning my work for the day. From over my wall I could hear phones starting to ring, and then some conversation between co-workers, and then some escalation of those conversations. Actually, it was only in hindsight that I was aware of the escalation when a friend came to my office and told me that her sister just called and said an airplane had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York. We all assumed it was an accident. In fact, I envisioned a small private plane that had lost control. It was disturbing, but none of us had any idea what was really going on. My friend kept a small radio on her desk, so she started listening for news. I started checking web sites. Reliable information was slow to appear, but we quickly learned that it was a wide-body jet. It made no sense! Meanwhile, the weather became uglier outside my window, and I was suddenly aware of it. Something else didn’t feel quite right; I couldn’t put my finger on it.

By this time the atmosphere in our office was palpably tense. And then the news of the second plane crashing to the other tower hit the airwaves. Any conjecture about a terrible accident was now gone, and we knew that something sinister and malevolent was happening. Then, of course, we learned of two further crashes. I, like nearly everyone else, was trying to obtain information and to make sense of it all. My company’s Internet access was still quite limited, so it was quickly overwhelmed. In fact, the Internet in general was overwhelmed that morning with people trying to find out what was happening. My friend’s radio, in addition to phone calls, became our information sources. With my computer practically dead, I sat back in my chair to catch my breath, realizing that the solitude that I typically enjoyed in my little office felt oppressively solitary at that moment. And I gazed out the window again and realized that it looked like night outside — eerily metaphorical.

Even at that moment, I remember the word “surreal” racing though my mind several times. That stood out to me as “surreal” is a word I so rarely use. I am a word person, and often become annoyed with people’s misuse or overuse of powerful words to the point that those words lose their impact. On this occasion, however, “surreal” was an apt descriptor of what was happening. And even though it was all happening so far away, one had to wonder what was next.

That was when I thought about my wife. Oh, my gosh! She’s on her way to a nuclear submarine base! She’s probably rocking down I-95 with a CD playing, clueless as to what evil is unfolding. I tried to call her on her cell phone and got nothing. Are the towers down? Is she in a “dead zone”? I felt panicked and helpless. Thankfully, she soon called me. The submarine base, of course, had gone into lock-down, and all visitors and other non-essential personnel were made to leave the base. She was going home.

I wanted to go home, too. I did no work at all that day. I don’t think anyone else did either. It was surely one of the longest days in history. Even once the dark clouds lifted around lunch time, that metaphorical darkness lingered. Once at home that evening, I was happy to see Amy there, already in pajamas and with her hair up — finally something felt normal! I spent the rest of the evening watching news coverage in dismay until the day finally ended. And by “ended,” I mean simply that the calendar changed from September 11th to September 12th. In so many ways, after all, that day has never ended.

In spite of the confusion and fear and sadness and fury of that fateful day, I clearly recall the glimpses of America at its best. Usually content in my office alone, I needed to be around my co-workers that day — even the ones with whom I was not especially close. I saw the same thing everywhere: we needed each other; we appreciated each other; we helped each other. Politicians ceased, for a moment at least, being Democrats or Republicans as they joined hands on the Capital steps and sang America the Beautiful. And it was beautiful. In the face of unspeakable tragedy, we were one nation, albeit temporarily. While wounded and still counting the catastrophic losses, we stood victorious and proud.

Our lives, indeed our world, changed that day. There is much that we learned — and failed to learn. Much has been and will be said about all of that. On this day and in this forum, however, I simply wanted to tell my story about how I experienced the world six years ago today. I trust that you will value mine as I value yours.

“I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.” - Mahatma Gandhi

Time Flies — and Stands Still

We have all surely used the expression “Time flies” many times. As I am now just over 30 days from peering down the barrel of my 44th (gulp!) birthday, it really does seem that days are shorter, weeks are abbreviated, and we are changing calendars far before a year could possibly have come and gone. Time flies. Or does it? We sometimes experience those paradoxical moments when time appears to stand still — when we return to a place from our past and look around to find that little has changed. I had such an experience over the weekend.

Last Wednesday afternoon while I was on the road in Gainesville, my uncle Bill quietly passed away after a fairly short but difficult battle with an aggressive cancer. Much of my extended family lives in a small mill village in South Carolina called Lockhart. Although I had seen them all at a family reunion four years ago, I had not actually been to Lockhart since we buried my grandmother in the fall of 1996. The timing, as usual, was less than ideal, but I felt it important to drive the 400 or so miles to attend the funeral to support Bill’s wife, my aunt, who has always been there for me.

My family has long been among the cornerstones of the tiny Lockhart community. There were seven children. Of those, four remained in Lockhart. In fact, two of my aunts and their families (including my uncle Bill) live on either side of my grandparent’s house, which was the center of activity for as long as I can remember. Even now, long after both grandparents have died, that house (pictured below) remains the gathering place.

On Friday morning, I arrived there for the first time in eleven years. One of my aunts stood on the porch as we drove up. At first glance, I would have sworn it was Nana! Upon entering the house, I was amazed at how nothing had changed. Everything was exactly as it had always been — except for the absence of the aroma of Granddaddy’s pipe tobacco. The old mantle clock that hasn’t worked in my lifetime — still there. Uncle Ralph’s (also deceased) old record albums — still there. The tacky decorative candles that I gave Nana as a gift some thirty years ago — still there. I went outside and sat on the old porch swing where I have so many memories. As I looked around the village, the passing of years was evident in places. The mill was closed and torn down long ago, so most of the houses, which are over 100 years old, are empty. Some, in fact, are crumbling. But those three houses in a row are still kept, alive and proud — and relatively unchanged.

I was happy to see everyone again in spite, of course, of the circumstances. These are salt-of-the-earth small-town people in the traditional South. I rejected that lifestyle long ago when I became educated and moved to Louisville, KY and then to Jacksonville, FL — perhaps foolishly thinking myself somehow superior. As I listened to what would be the most appropriate eulogy I have ever heard, I realized some things about life and about those people I have perceived as simple and about myself. My uncle was a quiet man who was content with what he had. I heard those words several times: “content with what he had.”

I find myself always wanting more and more and more — never content. Perhaps that is indeed why time seems to fly here and why it seems to have stood still there. My life (and yours) is a non-stop process of striving and acquiring and going and coming and buying and selling and worrying and so on and so on. The gentleman who did Bill’s funeral grew up in that small community, so he had known Bill all his life. He could not find or recall a single person who had an unkind thing to say about Bill. Moreover, neither he nor anyone else could recall a single occasion when Bill had an unkind thing to say about anyone else. So, there, in a box, lay a man everyone knew as “simple and quiet, and content with what he had.” The room was full of people, and the procession to the cemetery was nearly a mile long. He mattered!

Time will continue to fly, and my day in a similar box will arrive too soon. I would love to think similar things will be spoken of me. If that is to be, I hope that I will keep the lessons I learned this past weekend — that it isn’t time that moves too quickly, but that we move too quickly though it; that being remembered for being kind and loving will ultimately trump all else; that much of our progress and achievements are illusions; that life is what we make it; and that simple pleasures are, indeed, the best of all.

In Memoriam
William Henry Jenkins
10/15/1925 to 8/22/2007