TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES . . ..

   

   I never met the Reverend Doctor Richard "Dick" Young.  He died before I became affiliated with the hospital where I now practice.  In 1947, he began the program out of which has emerged our counseling network.  On his office wall he had a framed needlepoint: "When you walk around in people's lives, take off your shoes.  You are on Holy Ground."

    "Holy Ground" refers to the call of Moses to be Yahweh's advocate for the Israelite captives in Egypt. (See Exodus 3:1-6)
As I understand and experience it, when a counselee becomes aware of touching a profound dimension of their Being and we both know that it is not of our making ...either of their own intellect or my professional 'know-how'...then we are on "Holy Ground", something greater than ourselves. (Don't get nervous, I hardly refer to 'hearing voices'.) 

    Many of our once honored words have lost much (or all) of their luster, potency and maybe even meaning.  Words such as 'reverence', 'respect', 'awe', even 'holy' slide off our tongues and out of our mouths with little reflection about the "OTHERNESS" to which they originally pointed.  'Causes' or 'Reasons' for this debasement abound.  I think a major culprit is the sheer acceleration and distractedness that many feel.  It is almost counter-cultural to suggest that someone 'slow down, you're moving too fast. Gotta make the moment last . . ' (somewhat akin to the Simon and Garfunkle lyric.)  If the only thing that is "Real" is that which is in front of me and apprehended exclusively by the five senses,  then my vision and comprehension become narrow, superficial, and even profaned.

    "Holy" is associated with something considered divine and transcendent that deserves special respect and reverence.  My clients and I seem to experience that more often when two circumstances prevail: we are asking good questions and we are paying attention.

   'Counseling' or 'psychotherapy' (at least in my understanding and practice) is not so much about giving "Answers" as  in "Getting the Questions Right".  [Personally, I get more than a bit skeptical of someone who purports to know the 'Answers' to Life's BIG Questions.  So here I am hardly speaking of the everyday, routine 'think it will rain?' types of inquiries.]

     'Data' is important and not to be despised.  But standing alone, it is not the totality of Truth, particularly matters that pertain to Meaning and Purpose.  The French writer, LaRouchefoucauld, claimed that the Heart has its reasons that Reason does not understand.  So, back to "Holy Ground".

    My colleagues and I sit with people who are often stirred to the deepest parts of their Being.  What superficial answer is there to offer someone whose world has crumbled?  The Biblical character Job has decendants who regularly wrestle with "Why?"  and "What Next?" in matters as diverse as: loss of a child whether through 'natural causes', accident,  or suicide; betrayal; aging and the loss of vigor; job or professional pressures; forgiveness or score-keeping; 'another chance' in life; and the list goes on.  An unknown author wrote that we get good answers by asking good questions.  

   One of the ancient Names for the "Holy One" was Wisdom.  On my office desk is a watercolor of an owl, traditionally associated with wisdom.  For me, it is a non-verbal reminder: that my counselees often have a portion of wisdom that for the moment is difficult for them to access; that having lived for 75 years, I have learned a few things that I hope qualify as wisdom (including learning when to be less verbose); and that whether acknowledged by us or not, there is a Wisdom present that moves us toward greater Awareness and Clarity.  At times such as those, 'take off your shoes . . .'

    Satchel

     

RITES OF PASSAGE, or IT'S DIFFERENT NOW THAT IT'S CHANGED

   Twice in  the past week I have  attended ceremonies that meant 
"something is now different in my life" for the honorees.

   Anthropologists and other academics refer to these ritualized times as 'Rites of Passage'.  So, a couple of definitions:

RITE OF PASSAGE:  
  ...Rituals/ceremonies that indicate that a  person has reached a transitional place in life. E.g., births, puberty, marriage, graduation, career change, having children, death.
  ...Ceremonies marking a change in status
  ...These rites help the person understand their new roles in society.

  Seth and Kiira were married last Sunday afternoon.  The Bride was 'stunningly beautiful'; the Groom barely able to contain his great joy; the day was 'sun-drenched'; the great outdoors capturing the expansive love and good-will of those attending; etc.  ALL those cliches are true !

   
   I met Seth Carper, the teen-ager, when I became pastor of his church.  He's now on the cusp of 34 but it was 'like yesterday' when I gave his 8th Grade Graduation Address.  Suddenly, he is an adult. 
  
    A jazz musician and human being extraordinaire ,  he has channeled his creativity through a range of professional expressions:  public school music teacher, member of several bands, performer on cruise ship lines as well as Carneige Hall, instructor at CCNY...and probably others.  (Google: Seth Carper.  Note ...get the musician. There are others.)

   Kiira has also achieved significant professional stature and recognition.  (Google: Kiira Schmidt.)  

     This Fall, they will be living in the Southwest U.S. as Seth begins Doctoral studies.

     Watching the wedding service of vows and rings, I felt gratitude for their friendship and for the anticipation and Promise that their new 'status' and relationship hold.

    Then on Thursday evening, I attended the graduation for the Residents in our Network's  training program.  Among the five  graduates were three men with whom I had worked.  Their Professional 'apprenticeship' has included --beyond their MA degree and Internship --a three year Residency with a 3000 hour  clinical component.  They are now Licensed Professional Counselors.  Watching these exercises, I felt tremendous admiration for their commitment and perseverance as well as their personal integrity.  Their backgrounds diverge greatly and each of them is uniquely talented to provide competent, sensitive counsel for their counselees.  Nick has more energy than anyone I have known in a long time.  He balances many tasks well.  Carleton and Jaime have made career changes...that within itself is a special kind of challenge.  Jaime also gets an additional salute as the Elder Statesman of the cadre who became our Intern after a distinguished military career, including three deployments in Iraq.  I am honored to have them as colleagues.

 

                                              With l-r  Carleton, Nick and "Colonel" Jaime

    Having achieved this transitional milestone, their lives also will be different as they fill their new societal and personal roles.

      On both of these occasions ...a beautiful wedding  and an impressive graduation ceremony ...it occurred to me that not only are these persons now different than they were previously,  but also those of us who have the privilege of being their 'cheerleaders' have been influenced and changed because of our relationships with them.  

    They are beneficiaries of many person's love, encouragement, influence, and hopes.  On the other hand, we of the 'older generation', chronologically or experientially, gain by their influence upon us.  They can help in 'keeping us young' in our attitudes and openness to new experiences and understandings of life.  

    Jaime says it well: "Life is Good" !

        Satchel




  

EVERETT . . .A FIDDLER AND MORE

           Everett on left with Bob (guitar) and Stan (banjo) at Maple Springs Church, Around 2006


  As best I can determine, Everett turns 93 today .  So, Happy Birthday !  

   { About the only way he has not entered the 21st century (and I may be wrong about this) is that he and Ruby do not have a computer and hence, the internet.  So, may I ask that someone from the Maple Springs blog readers convey this electronic salute to one of my heroes . . .someone who personifies 'aging with grace and dignity' .}

   I met Everett in 1991 when the Bishop appointed me as pastor of the church he attended.  He was 71 at the time.  'Old' to my 53 year old mind-set.  Not so now that I have passed  that marker , and then add a few.  I remember asking him if I would be able to play the fiddle as he could when I was 71.  He  said "Sure" and then indulged my 'corny' humor when I said, "Good; because I can't play it at all now."  My apologies, Everett, for that goofy 'joke'.

   By that time, he had been playing with various 'country music' bands across piedmont North Carolina in all kinds of venues, including a nearby television station. He also plays a strong bass fiddle.

    During my time at that parish,  he was a regular in the 'Maple Springs Strings', a half-dozen or so members of that congregation who volunteered their talents each Sunday.  This group and another in which he played often visited area nursing homes to play for residents there.  His 'signature song' has been This Old House and he can get down REALLY LOW on the low notes.

     He and Ruby are doting, devoted grand-parents.  He taught his two grand-daughters to play the fiddle when they were still young girls.  And while he is vegetarian himself, he frequently takes his grand-son, Lee, to get his Hardee-burger.

   Besides his music and family, let me tell you some other traits of this magnificent fellow who can teach us much about getting older without 'getting old'.  I mentioned that he is vegetarian. His mind is as 'sharp as a tack'. He still drives, rides his horse, and works 'public work'.  Recently, while the establishment where he worked was undergoing renovations and hence closed, Everett likely was one of the oldest recipients of unemployment benefits in the state.  Now that the motel has re-opened, there are tourist who regularly pass through, asking specifically for Everett's Continental Breakfast.

    Without benefit of 'cosmetic surgery', he still looks pretty much as he did when I first met him 22 years ago.  He epitomizes 'sartorial elegance' or , if you prefer, he's a fashion plate, always color coordinated, neatly pressed, or as the term is sometimes used around here, he's 'spiffy'.  He is a gentleman in every sense of the word, including a 'gentle man'.

   
                                     Ruby and Everett in 1991 . . .hardly changed 22 years later.

     These words of Albert Einstein seem fitting for Everett: "Do not grow old, no matter how long you live.  Never cease to stand like curious children before the great Mystery into which we are born."

  And for all of us who see more and more candles on our birthday cakes, these thoughts from the inspiration of my nom de plume, Satchel Paige: "Age is a question of mind over matter.  If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."

    Satchel





    Again, 'Happy Birthday, Everett' and thanks for being the inspiration that you are.

    Satchel

THE RUSTING, ABANDONED TRUCK

         I miss my pick-up truck.

         No, it was not this one.  Mine was a 1997 Ford Ranger with 'backseat'.  Some might attribute the longing to having a tad of 'residual redneck' . . .but I plead 'Innocent'.  It was just a fun vehicle.

   A client once told me that his brother's dying words to him were "Keep on truckin'". That encouragement has meant much to him at times when the temptation was to put life in 'neutral' and 'coast', if not even to put life's transmission into 'Reverse'.  But, to this particular truck.

     I wonder about this one.  Happened upon it recently on the grounds of a nearby Conference/Camp center.  Looks as if it has been there for some time.  Judging from the size of the trees around it, several Springs have come and gone since it was left here.  No doubt there was good reason at the time to 'park' it here, permanently.  

    The sight resonated with me for reasons that are still unclear.  My initial responses were sadness and curiosity woven together.  Sadness perhaps has to do with the transiency of things we considered, if not durable, then at least 'long-lasting', including our selves.  We are a 'use it up, throw it away, get another one' society.  When the attitude extends to people, 'Bad Things' happen.  It becomes particularly pernicious when individuals  adopt that cynical view as 'self definition'.

   Lucky Strike cigarettes  used the motto 'LSMFT' for their own advertising purposes.  In human terms, it can mean "Low self- esteem means Friction and Trouble".  But I digress and  this does not answer the meaning of the 'Parable of the Rusting Truck'. 

   Sad, also,  that what had at one time been a 'healthy individual' and 'contributing member of society' had been relegated to Junk.
So absolute, so final.  Could nothing be recycled; was there no 'organ bank'? Was there 'potential' yet unrealized, unused?  Well, obviously, the answers are unknown. Circumstantial evidence, strong.

    The curiosity focuses on matters such as 'whose truck was it', 'for what purposes was it used'; 'when was it in its prime'; 'what brought its demise'; 'how did this place come to be selected as final resting place'; 'how long has it been here'; succinctly, 'what is (was) the truck's  'Story' ?  Among the saddest of sights on the landscape are abandoned houses, abandoned churches, abandoned schools, abandoned  vehicles, abandoned  people. Tempus fugit . . .time flies.  Left there, it is enough to cause terminal cynicism. Is there nothing that is durable ?  What can we carry with us? 

    I am not ready to allow cynicism to have the 'final say'.  There are what a poet  (Wordsworth (?)) has  called  'Intimations of Immortality'. I prefer to continue scratching around for larger unfoldings, understandings of the intimations. 

     In the meantime, my client's brother's final admonition has merit, "Keep on truckin'". **

       Satchel

**  That client died a few months ago after a courageous struggle to keep his dignity and relationships.  He made his last visit to my office just a couple of weeks prior to his death.  He "kept on truckin' " to the end.  RIP  Butch.
     

"WISDOM WAS HIS TOOL . . ."

     "He had an edge on education;
      Wisdom was his tool.
    He could tell three days before it snowed
      And you can't learn that in school."
                 The Statler Brothers, Dad



          Someone asked me recently how I choose topics for blog posts.  Well, some seem to present themselves almost written (not ready to call this inspiration.)  Others, are prompted by what is going on in the world around me.  Yet others arise from snippets of conversation or something that I hear.  As best I can determine, today's meanderings and musings have arisen because the above lyrics have been singing themselves to me since a conversation last week with my friend, Rick.  Do not now even know the context in which they arose. Or, maybe it was hearing again Malcolm Gladwell (Outliers) reflecting on the confluence of circumstances that make for "success", however defined. (If interested, see the earlier post Whose Shoulders do you Stand On?)

   Trained as a therapist as well as academic historian, I know something of the  allure and pitfalls of 'retrospective enhancement' as well as 'retrospective distortions'. . .flattery or glossing over illustrate the former; for the latter, flattery can fit here as well, along with scapegoating.  Still, indulging neither enhancement nor distortion,  there are some males who are (or were) 'jerks' and even less flattering labels, who do and have done immeasurable damage to their children's bodies, spirits and psyches.  Our father, though not without his limitations, gratefully was not one of those ogres.

   John McDermott, one of the Irish Tenors, sang in The Old Man
(ostensibly about his father): "He was more than just a father; a teacher, my best friend . . ."  My brothers and I were in the 'right' place at the 'right' time with the 'right' parents who because of the formative influences they had experienced encouraged us in many ways to grow.  We acknowledge that we were fortunate or lucky, or both.  Personal ability, intelligence and "smarts" are but part of the story.

   Essentially abandoned by his biological mother while he was still an infant, dad was fortunate that his own father recognized that he alone could not care for his sickly child.  Consequently, he enlisted the aid of a woman who comes close to being a 'Saint'...my Grandma Ida ...and she more than any other cared for dad through his early years and provided the stability and nurture he needed. 

           
Left: Grand-ma Ida Smith early 1950's; Above: Dad in Burlington, NC around 1920




   By adolescence, dad had returned to live with his father in another state.  Then the man he had known as 'Daddy Bob' had a health crisis and was unable to return to work in the cotton mill.  Dad returned to North Carolina and took Daddy Bob's place in the mill, thereby providing some degree of financial underpinning for his foster mother. Among other consequences of that decision, though, dad's formal schooling ended  at the tenth grade, at a time when completing the eleventh grade meant graduation. 

    He and mom were married in 1933 as the Great Depression made life difficult for most blue collar workers.  Dad in time was able again to find work in the  local cotton mill and remained there until after the births of their first two sons.  Do you know the definition of a 'lint head'? It was a prejudicial term of derision tossed at cotton mill workers by those who considered themselves 'too good' or 'too smart' to do the menial, manual labor.  Dad taught us that any honest work is honorable and not to be despised nor 'looked down upon'.  At the risk of being considered curmudgeonly or dinosaur-ly, I have observed that his perspective is not universally shared today, especially by those 'just starting out'.

    World War II brought some financial buoyancy to the lives of 'average Americans'.  Dad failed the physical examination for military service but his life-long 'hustle' (in a good sense) to supplement their income led to a new job in a new town around 1942.  He began driving a dry-cleaning route truck and in his 'down time' around the plant took the initiative to do what some might have considered 'menial tasks'.  The owner asked, "Do you know what you have done?"  When dad said no, Mr. Tunstall said, "You have just earned a $5 a week raise." That was a LOT of money at the time.

                            Dad with my brother, Dennis, around 1947.
                                          Dry cleaning truck in background.  For several
                                          years, this was our 'family car'.

   When I began working in the small-town 'supermarket' in the early 1950's, he admonished me to stay busy.  If there were few customers in the store, dust the shelves or sweep the floor.  Already as a boy, I had spent many hours with him on his truck.  We had 'contests' to determine who could deliver the most bundles.  Like Tom Sawyer enlisting helpers to whitewash the fence,  dad allowed me to 'win'.  For this, I earned a supplement to my weekly base pay of $2, (thought generous at the time) plus all the soft drinks and candy bars he deemed acceptable for my health.  Being trusted with significant sums of money for making change when collecting accounts on 'pay day' in the mill town gave my youthful self-confidence a huge boost.

     In time, dad and his brother-in-law bought that dry cleaning plant and were partners until 1954 when at 42 (old then), he began working with Metropolitan Life Insurance Company ("Mother Met" he called it because of a new level of financial security this brought.)  Another family move ensued, bringing for me the opportunity to participate in high school athletics and to learn who my #1 fan was.  Before schools had Activity Buses for team transportation, dad often was one of the car pool drivers carrying my teammates and me to our away games.

     As our high school graduations loomed, my brothers and I frequently heard, not "If you go to college . . ." but "When you go to college. . .  ".  I probably didnot know that I had an option until after the fact. It was part of their cultural ethos , something they thought would be important to and for their sons. "We want you to have opportunities we didn't" was frequently cited. Then there was the confluence of his work ethic and emphasis on formal education.  He sadly told me that going to college in the Fall meant that I would not be able to play American Legion Baseball.  Thus ended my 'career'. 

   Fifteen or so years as a college professor strengthened my conviction that a college degree per se does not mean that one is somehow  more intelligent, more  blessed, 'more better', more special than anyone else.  Maybe there is something to the aphorism that claims  'we often do for our children what we wish had been done for us when we were their  ages'.

                                                            My parents around 1980


     In his later years, the once vital, strong man that I had known became increasingly infirm.  Chronic arthritis and coronary disease rendered him a shadow of his former self.  While his physical strength declined, his capacity for expressing love and affection did not diminish.  Sometime while I was in college, the 'manly' handshake upon reunion was replaced with the outright bearhug.  Their eight grand-children loved their grand-parents and found each of them in their own way sources of wisdom, warmth, and welcome.  They were called 'Pa' and 'Ma' because , as family lore has it, my daughter was unable to say 'Grandpa' and 'Grandma'.

                            With his two oldest grand-daughters around 1970

 Two nights before his unexpected death, my parents telephoned 'just to chat'.  The last words dad ever spoke to me were "I love you".  The Statlers were right : "Wisdom was his tool."

         Satchel