My primary care physician of some years recently left a family practice to become the medical director of a Geriatric Care Center. He invited his patients age 46 and up to join him in the switch. I had some reservations about going to anything labeled “geriatric” at age 52, but it was easier than looking for a new doctor.
My recent trip to the center for my annual physical confirmed that I was in the right place. Everything was so quiet, which I love. The usual hubbub of fast moving people was absent. I was in my element.
And then the nurse told me that it was so wonderful to have a “cute, young male” in the office. OK, she did not use the word “cute.” But I could hear that she meant to. She did say “young male” which sent me into seventh heaven. It has been many years since I have been referred to as a young male. I am so glad that this nurse was extremely perceptive and intelligent.
I felt somewhat like an interloper in this geriatric care center. I liked it there, but I wondered if I belonged. The nurse said it was nice to have someone who could actually understand what they were saying – no dementia, no Alzheimer’s. As I left I wondered if I was in the wrong place.
But then I went to look for my car. I walked down the street which was just a few feet below the level of the parking lot. I looked up to where I left my car and it just was not there. I shook any cobwebs from my head and looked more carefully. My eyes went down the row of cars carefully, and again mine was not there.
Where was my car? No one steals ’89 Volvos. This was not a big parking lot. Did I just park in some other part of the lot? Was my mind that forgetful? Did I really qualify for the geriatric center?
I am happy to report that there was a good explanation for all of this. I was not wrong about where I had parked. I found my car about 50 feet away in the middle aisle of the lot. It seems that I had forgotten to put the shift in park and the car rolled across the parking lot.
So my long term memory is still intact. I am not sure what this all says about my short term memory. I suggest that you not park downhill from me. But this is no big deal. Cute, young males should be given the benefit of the doubt.
September 18, 2002
August 22, 2002
Back to School
Back to school, back to school,
to prove to Dad that I’m no fool
I got my lunch box packed, my shoes tied tight.
I hope I don’t get in a fight.
Those are the immortal words of Adam Sandler’s character in the movie classic, “Billy Madison.” I sing that little ditty, along with the rest of my crazed family members, many times during the year, but it is in August that its depth of the lyric comes to light.
The season of “back to school” is upon us. I remember the last few weeks of August as ones of great anticipation. I would be getting a new pair of school shoes (as opposed to play shoes.) They would be whatever hard, dark leather shoe was in style. Or at least I hoped that my parents would spring for what was in style.
I was looking forward to seeing my classmates again. The summer had meant great freedom, but freedom to be alone got old. I missed my friends and I longed to run with them at recess.
Even the idea of learning new things was intriguing. I knew that in fourth grade I would be facing the treacherous long division. And in fifth dreaded fractions would come into my life. Every year my love of learning would last only about two days, but by the end of the next summer I would forget all that and look forward to all that the teacher would impart.
I calculate that I have had twenty years of back to school. So the feeling of newness, of anticipation, of possibility at this time of year is firmly ingrained in me. When Labor Day rolls around I am ready to go. It is the beginning of my new year. The cool weather is beginning and I am energized.
to prove to Dad that I’m no fool
I got my lunch box packed, my shoes tied tight.
I hope I don’t get in a fight.
Those are the immortal words of Adam Sandler’s character in the movie classic, “Billy Madison.” I sing that little ditty, along with the rest of my crazed family members, many times during the year, but it is in August that its depth of the lyric comes to light.
The season of “back to school” is upon us. I remember the last few weeks of August as ones of great anticipation. I would be getting a new pair of school shoes (as opposed to play shoes.) They would be whatever hard, dark leather shoe was in style. Or at least I hoped that my parents would spring for what was in style.
I was looking forward to seeing my classmates again. The summer had meant great freedom, but freedom to be alone got old. I missed my friends and I longed to run with them at recess.
Even the idea of learning new things was intriguing. I knew that in fourth grade I would be facing the treacherous long division. And in fifth dreaded fractions would come into my life. Every year my love of learning would last only about two days, but by the end of the next summer I would forget all that and look forward to all that the teacher would impart.
I calculate that I have had twenty years of back to school. So the feeling of newness, of anticipation, of possibility at this time of year is firmly ingrained in me. When Labor Day rolls around I am ready to go. It is the beginning of my new year. The cool weather is beginning and I am energized.
July 12, 2002
Scudders
The pink balloon scudded down the edge of that body of water that goes from here to England. In a few hours it would traverse the miles to the mouth of the Annisquam River. But momentarily it was tethered by a long ribbon of similar hue to the lip of the lap of the outgoing tide.
I live close by a beautiful four mile stretch of sand, Crane Beach, but I am not a beach person. I am more of a mountain person. But one morning in late June, just in the first days of summer, the beach called to me.
The view descending from the entrance walkway jolted me. Early morning no one was there. Even the lifeguards had not arrived. The expanse of sand rolled toward the sun and shimmered flat and clean from the receding tide. Only a few lifeguard stands, one toppled in the night, marred the table top surface.
A hard and steady wind blew from the North. Two sailboats emerged from the mouth of the Ipswich River and chased me down the strand. The solitary large jibs puffed out proudly as they ran with the wind.
I wished that I was running too, but my ankle will no longer allow it. I wished to be moving fast, straining my body and locking my mind onto my own rhythm. But I have been forced to walk.
And then I noticed the moving sand. The beach was smokin’. Rivulets of sand scampered in wavy lines parallel to the water’s edge, just inches off the ground. As I walked with the flow my calves were stung by the grains of sand racing like air vapors streaming over an airplane’s wing. I was walking slowly in the light brown streams of sand.
In my reverie I was passed from behind by two women on their morning walk. I am usually embarrassed to be passed by women. It is a macho thing. But at that moment I was not into speed or quantity of miles. I walked at a slow pace and stopped when I wanted to stop.
I was busy noticing. The boats were gaining on me. A fisherman in waders worked hard out in the water. The waves were white capped. The water was dark and looked cold. The beer can at water’s edge had a barely recognizable label. Nature had been working hard to wear off the indications of civilization from the can. A black coffee cup lid sat fastened to the beach.
And the pink balloon on the string. Where did it come from? There were no children on the beach. There were no birthday parties on the beach. There were no mailboxes on which to hang an “It’s a Girl!” balloon.
Pink balloon, sand streams, beer can, coffee lid, sailboats, white caps, early morning light, walkers, fisherman, foot tracks, emptiness, dark water and hard wind – for a few moments we were all together and connected. We knew not each other and yet somehow we chose or were chosen to be there, creating several still frames in the movie of my life, in another walker’s life and in the life of a pink balloon. All scudding through the sands of time.
I live close by a beautiful four mile stretch of sand, Crane Beach, but I am not a beach person. I am more of a mountain person. But one morning in late June, just in the first days of summer, the beach called to me.
The view descending from the entrance walkway jolted me. Early morning no one was there. Even the lifeguards had not arrived. The expanse of sand rolled toward the sun and shimmered flat and clean from the receding tide. Only a few lifeguard stands, one toppled in the night, marred the table top surface.
A hard and steady wind blew from the North. Two sailboats emerged from the mouth of the Ipswich River and chased me down the strand. The solitary large jibs puffed out proudly as they ran with the wind.
I wished that I was running too, but my ankle will no longer allow it. I wished to be moving fast, straining my body and locking my mind onto my own rhythm. But I have been forced to walk.
And then I noticed the moving sand. The beach was smokin’. Rivulets of sand scampered in wavy lines parallel to the water’s edge, just inches off the ground. As I walked with the flow my calves were stung by the grains of sand racing like air vapors streaming over an airplane’s wing. I was walking slowly in the light brown streams of sand.
In my reverie I was passed from behind by two women on their morning walk. I am usually embarrassed to be passed by women. It is a macho thing. But at that moment I was not into speed or quantity of miles. I walked at a slow pace and stopped when I wanted to stop.
I was busy noticing. The boats were gaining on me. A fisherman in waders worked hard out in the water. The waves were white capped. The water was dark and looked cold. The beer can at water’s edge had a barely recognizable label. Nature had been working hard to wear off the indications of civilization from the can. A black coffee cup lid sat fastened to the beach.
And the pink balloon on the string. Where did it come from? There were no children on the beach. There were no birthday parties on the beach. There were no mailboxes on which to hang an “It’s a Girl!” balloon.
Pink balloon, sand streams, beer can, coffee lid, sailboats, white caps, early morning light, walkers, fisherman, foot tracks, emptiness, dark water and hard wind – for a few moments we were all together and connected. We knew not each other and yet somehow we chose or were chosen to be there, creating several still frames in the movie of my life, in another walker’s life and in the life of a pink balloon. All scudding through the sands of time.
June 21, 2002
On a Roll
I am on a roll. It feels like Joe DiMaggio’s hitting streak of fifty six games, which has never been surpassed. I am going for a personal best of consecutive “good weeks.” The streak now stands at ten. My previous best was about two, maybe one and a half.
Those who know me would tell you that consistency is not one of my hallmarks. I am the king of up and down. In some circles I would be called a rapid cycler.
What happened? If I knew for sure I would bottle it. The changes seem to be in the little things, but most of all in attitude. And it is the little things that changed the attitude. My life has not changed a lot, but now I like it a whole lot better. Gratitude is in there somewhere.
But I am preparing for the inevitable crash. I was never a Boy Scout but I adopted their motto: “Be Prepared.” So I have found a new homepage for my computer: despair.com. It was made for me.
The site has many inspirational posters for sale. A picture of a large ship sinking suggests, “Mistakes - It could be that the purpose of your life is only to serve as a warning to others.” Or a picture of sunset and “Despair – It’s always darkest just before it turns pitch black.” And an iceberg carries the label “Problems – No matter how great and destructive your problems seem now, remember, you’ve probably only seen the tip of them.”
Ah, words to sink into depression by. Check out this real website.
Those who know me would tell you that consistency is not one of my hallmarks. I am the king of up and down. In some circles I would be called a rapid cycler.
What happened? If I knew for sure I would bottle it. The changes seem to be in the little things, but most of all in attitude. And it is the little things that changed the attitude. My life has not changed a lot, but now I like it a whole lot better. Gratitude is in there somewhere.
But I am preparing for the inevitable crash. I was never a Boy Scout but I adopted their motto: “Be Prepared.” So I have found a new homepage for my computer: despair.com. It was made for me.
The site has many inspirational posters for sale. A picture of a large ship sinking suggests, “Mistakes - It could be that the purpose of your life is only to serve as a warning to others.” Or a picture of sunset and “Despair – It’s always darkest just before it turns pitch black.” And an iceberg carries the label “Problems – No matter how great and destructive your problems seem now, remember, you’ve probably only seen the tip of them.”
Ah, words to sink into depression by. Check out this real website.
May 21, 2002
Bird by Bird
Someone asked me recently how she could find build a network of like-minded people. I related a story told by the writer, Anne Lamott:
"Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.' "
Building a network of friends is a similar huge task. But it begins with one other person. You meet the person. You call him for coffee. You call again. You meet face to face periodically. You share what is going on in your life. You build intimacy.
Then you meet another and repeat the process. And another. And another. It takes years to do this. It takes great time and energy. It takes perseverance. It takes dealing with failure and loss when someone disappears on you. But it is all worth it.
You do it bird by bird, person by person.
Building Shalom Seacoast is the same process. It is taking many different steps, one by one, but ultimately it is building a web of relationships. This is done not by any group of leaders. This is done by each individual member building a web of intimacy.
A Gathering is a place to start. I used to hate large groups of people. For me, any group over five is big. I would be in a group of twenty and feel like I needed to connect with all twenty. I would be overwhelmed and so I would connect with no one. Somewhere I shifted my effort to connect with one out of the twenty. To connect with one was a successful evening.
So come to the June Gathering and connect with one other person. Help us create a community bird by bird.
"Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.' "
Building a network of friends is a similar huge task. But it begins with one other person. You meet the person. You call him for coffee. You call again. You meet face to face periodically. You share what is going on in your life. You build intimacy.
Then you meet another and repeat the process. And another. And another. It takes years to do this. It takes great time and energy. It takes perseverance. It takes dealing with failure and loss when someone disappears on you. But it is all worth it.
You do it bird by bird, person by person.
Building Shalom Seacoast is the same process. It is taking many different steps, one by one, but ultimately it is building a web of relationships. This is done not by any group of leaders. This is done by each individual member building a web of intimacy.
A Gathering is a place to start. I used to hate large groups of people. For me, any group over five is big. I would be in a group of twenty and feel like I needed to connect with all twenty. I would be overwhelmed and so I would connect with no one. Somewhere I shifted my effort to connect with one out of the twenty. To connect with one was a successful evening.
So come to the June Gathering and connect with one other person. Help us create a community bird by bird.
April 20, 2002
Penquins 1
Spring arrived at the Seacoast while I was gone. I went to Gorham, New Hampshire, for two days and when I returned the world was newly green. I think that it was just waiting for me to leave. I am not sure how, but somehow, it all revolves around me. Of that I am sure.
In the Spring a young man’s fancy turns to … SEX. It probably is something else, but whatever the poet said was just another lie. And what is a “fancy” anyway? And it is not just young men. Include in there old men, medium men, well done men – all of them.
And it is not just men. I have been following closely a pair of swans in my neighborhood. They flew into the pond before the ice broke up completely. I was amazed at how they would move around the pond in complete unison. Then the old mama swan got stuck in the weeds. At least she looked stuck. But I remembered the story about the birds, the bees and the swans. Yes, mama must be sitting on her eggs. I am sure that soon we will see little swanlings, just like last summer.
In the meantime, dad swan is having a wonderful time. He likes to hang out at the far end of the pond, putting as much distance between him and mama as he can. And when she starts honking at him, he does what any reasonable male would do. He sticks his head underwater so that he cannot hear. It is a cross-species skill.
But not all male species are so reasonable. I am really concerned about the male emperor penguins. One of the cable stations did an expose (my word) on how the females treat the males down there on Antartica. In the Fall, they do the usual mating thing and the female lays the egg. Then she does the hand off – she passes it to the male and takes off for the winter. She goes to Miami Beach or somewhere. He and all his buddies are left standing there, huddled together, for the entire winter, with no food, no tv, in incredible cold, in the dark, just taking care of this egg. He can’t even go swimming to get a snack.
Why does he do this? Male bonding just is not that good. He does all of this just to get some peace and quiet away from those females. Well, maybe it has something to do with his “fancy” too.
This appears to be a severe form of evolution. The male swan is more highly evolved and just sticks his head in the water. Men go ice fishing, hunting and riding around in trucks – until Spring, when a young man’s fancy … well, you know.
In the Spring a young man’s fancy turns to … SEX. It probably is something else, but whatever the poet said was just another lie. And what is a “fancy” anyway? And it is not just young men. Include in there old men, medium men, well done men – all of them.
And it is not just men. I have been following closely a pair of swans in my neighborhood. They flew into the pond before the ice broke up completely. I was amazed at how they would move around the pond in complete unison. Then the old mama swan got stuck in the weeds. At least she looked stuck. But I remembered the story about the birds, the bees and the swans. Yes, mama must be sitting on her eggs. I am sure that soon we will see little swanlings, just like last summer.
In the meantime, dad swan is having a wonderful time. He likes to hang out at the far end of the pond, putting as much distance between him and mama as he can. And when she starts honking at him, he does what any reasonable male would do. He sticks his head underwater so that he cannot hear. It is a cross-species skill.
But not all male species are so reasonable. I am really concerned about the male emperor penguins. One of the cable stations did an expose (my word) on how the females treat the males down there on Antartica. In the Fall, they do the usual mating thing and the female lays the egg. Then she does the hand off – she passes it to the male and takes off for the winter. She goes to Miami Beach or somewhere. He and all his buddies are left standing there, huddled together, for the entire winter, with no food, no tv, in incredible cold, in the dark, just taking care of this egg. He can’t even go swimming to get a snack.
Why does he do this? Male bonding just is not that good. He does all of this just to get some peace and quiet away from those females. Well, maybe it has something to do with his “fancy” too.
This appears to be a severe form of evolution. The male swan is more highly evolved and just sticks his head in the water. Men go ice fishing, hunting and riding around in trucks – until Spring, when a young man’s fancy … well, you know.
February 21, 2002
February
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Those are the words of T.S. Eliot, another Big Fat Liar. I know that he is a liar because you cannot get any crueler than February. And anyway, he cannot even spell “cruelest” correctly.
February is sooo cold! Yes, it is fifty degrees today. But I am sure that it will be freezing cold tomorrow. February is the month when the thermometer, unless it is digital, dips down to below zero! A digital cannot dip. No, it has not done that this year, but it used to do it all the time. I remember clearly from my childhood that it was always below zero for the entire month of February.
By the way, I now have a wireless digital thermometer which can track these things. It keeps a record of the prior low temperature, so you cannot sneak these things by me any more. It sends secret radio waves from just outside my front door to the warmth of my kitchen. It has the capability of receiving these mysterious waves from two more places on my vast estate. But I do not think that I live in a variable temperature zone, so I have not yet sprung for the additional monitors. But it does not take anything digital to know how bad February is.
If February is the cruelest month, then March is the crueler month – sort of like “second worst.” In March, you think it will be spring-like, but it never is. It is just rainy and muddy.
I solve the March problem by heading to Florida to watch my beloved Red Sox. That is not “my beloved” like we talk about at Shalom Mountain. No, it is much bigger than that.
I do have a problem though. I also have a new digital answering machine, which sits right beside my digital thermometer. Theoretically, I can call the answering machine from Florida and check on my messages. In the past, I have never figured out how to do this. But if it works, maybe I could also find out the temperature when I call in. I am not sure what the link should be. Is it Ethernet, USB cable or some other connection? I do not know anything about any of those.
Since I will be in Florida for part of March, you will not receive a March newsletter. This issue automatically becomes a double issue – perhaps twice as good, if not twice as long. So I will tell you all you need to know about April. April is the “pretend Spring” month. Try to convince yourself that it is Spring because New England does not have a Spring. If you want Spring, head south.
All of this “month” nonsense can be avoided by attending the Gatherings in March and April. We do much more than talk about the weather. Come prove to the Big Fat Liar T. S. Eliot that we do not live in a wasteland. Come and join in.
Lilacs out of dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Those are the words of T.S. Eliot, another Big Fat Liar. I know that he is a liar because you cannot get any crueler than February. And anyway, he cannot even spell “cruelest” correctly.
February is sooo cold! Yes, it is fifty degrees today. But I am sure that it will be freezing cold tomorrow. February is the month when the thermometer, unless it is digital, dips down to below zero! A digital cannot dip. No, it has not done that this year, but it used to do it all the time. I remember clearly from my childhood that it was always below zero for the entire month of February.
By the way, I now have a wireless digital thermometer which can track these things. It keeps a record of the prior low temperature, so you cannot sneak these things by me any more. It sends secret radio waves from just outside my front door to the warmth of my kitchen. It has the capability of receiving these mysterious waves from two more places on my vast estate. But I do not think that I live in a variable temperature zone, so I have not yet sprung for the additional monitors. But it does not take anything digital to know how bad February is.
If February is the cruelest month, then March is the crueler month – sort of like “second worst.” In March, you think it will be spring-like, but it never is. It is just rainy and muddy.
I solve the March problem by heading to Florida to watch my beloved Red Sox. That is not “my beloved” like we talk about at Shalom Mountain. No, it is much bigger than that.
I do have a problem though. I also have a new digital answering machine, which sits right beside my digital thermometer. Theoretically, I can call the answering machine from Florida and check on my messages. In the past, I have never figured out how to do this. But if it works, maybe I could also find out the temperature when I call in. I am not sure what the link should be. Is it Ethernet, USB cable or some other connection? I do not know anything about any of those.
Since I will be in Florida for part of March, you will not receive a March newsletter. This issue automatically becomes a double issue – perhaps twice as good, if not twice as long. So I will tell you all you need to know about April. April is the “pretend Spring” month. Try to convince yourself that it is Spring because New England does not have a Spring. If you want Spring, head south.
All of this “month” nonsense can be avoided by attending the Gatherings in March and April. We do much more than talk about the weather. Come prove to the Big Fat Liar T. S. Eliot that we do not live in a wasteland. Come and join in.
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