The Unbearable Lightness of Being

"Bad News", a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

feet not firmly
on the ground
swing like a
small child's
waiting for the doctor
after a routine
check up

he appears brusquely
lab results in hand
a part of
my anatomy
has decided
to change
into something else

not only that
but has decided
to do it
at a hectic pace
that I'm told
is unhealthy
and unsustainable

feet not firmly
on the ground
stop swinging
the small child
of infinite days
snuffed out
the doctor asks

"Are you OK?
You look pale."
I have the aching
feeling of wanting
to see my wife
and kids as soon
as humanly possible

more tests are
going to be
necessary he says
I wander out
of the office
feet still not firmly
on the ground
______________________

Just to clarify, I do not have cancer.  This is a photo I took of myself at the doctor's office while waiting to get my flu shot this past week.  But after downloading it and looking at it more closely a deep feeling of melancholy was triggered and I was reminded of two recent deaths of men my age who have faced such a terrible thing.

The 5th Beatle

The last time I'd glanced at the clock on the mantel it had been after 11 pm.  Greta, my beloved black & white Springer Spaniel, had fallen asleep with her muzzle on my slippers just out of my line of sight, nestled between the couch and floor.  I was watching  a documentary on PBS about John Lennon that had piqued my interest.  In my younger years, when my glasses were round and my hair was long, I was sometimes told I looked like him.  The early parts of the documentary focussed on his time with the Beatles and when the musical clips came up I couldn't resist participating in some late night karaoke.  Greta's head would pop up above the cushions and look me in the eye.

"It's OK, girl.  Daddy's just singin' along with the TV. "  I rubbed the full white mane on her chest until she calmed and laid back down.

It was both fascinating and heartwarming to see this man's transition from egotistical pop-star to doting father and all around Mr. Mom once Sean was born.  I was transfixed watching him romp in the YMCA pool with the small boy, feed him in a high chair, and chase him around their apartment while Yoko dutifully took care of the business side of things at the dining room table.  I found John's comment, "It was the happiest time of my life" endearing to say the least.

The documentary was winding its way towards tragedy when I found myself beginning to nod off.  On some subconscious level I could not bear to see that man and boy separated.  The remote control lay loose in my hand and my awareness seemed to be hovering a bit above the scene.  Somewhere in my half asleep mind I knew that Lawrence Welk was soon to make an appearance and I needed to move my thumb only an inch to the left to turn the TV off before he a-one-and-a-two'ed.

***

The screen suddenly collapsed into a small dazzling white spot, like a star in the blackness of space.  A thin glowing line shot out above and below the spot splitting the TV into equal halves.  I'd seen this phenomenon before on older TV sets when I was younger, but I didn't remember shutting it off and the glowing vertical line was not fading.  I felt myself lean forward to get a closer look and it appeared the glowing line was growing longer in the darkness of my living room, extending beyond the borders of the TV screen.  At this peculiar sight I stood up and discovered Greta was no longer on my feet.  The darkness was complete except for the glowing line which now stretched from floor to ceiling.

Out of curiosity I stepped forward to approach it and found I was wearing a suit which in the faint glow appeared to be completely white.  Another step forward and the line began to thicken and I heard a faint strand of familiar music.  I started walking towards it and felt a hand grasp the inside of my right forearm and was startled to find a stunning woman walking beside me.  She didn't seem to notice my surprise but instead kept looking straight ahead with a playful smile on her lips.  She had full wavy black hair that cascaded down her back and was wearing a shimmering gown that was white in the front but black on the sides and back.  Around her neck and flowing down over her chest was a white feather boa.  Her overall appearance was so very familiar but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

We continued to walk as the light ahead continued to broaden.  I cleared my throat, "Excuse me.  Do I know you?"

She was now the one who looked at me with surprise.  "Really, Winston.  Ten years together, are you joking?"

The sparkle in her eye triggered a feeling of familiarity that was almost maddening in its intensity.  My brain rifled through any number of possibilities without success, but when I dipped into my heart the truth hit like a thunderclap.  "Greta?  It's you, isn't it?  My god!  You're my dog!"

She pretended to pout and appear hurt, insisting I pipe down before I got bit.  "We've a wonderful evening ahead.  Don't ruin it by calling me a dog, Dear."

"No, no, of course not," I stammered.  It all made perfect sense while at the same time making no sense at all.

The light had now widened out to the point I was able to recognize it for what it was, double doors were opening at the end of a dark hallway.  Two doormen in coattails bowed on either side of us as we stepped through.  Their free arms were extended in perfect symmetry towards the room beckoning us to enter.  Greta pulled closer to me with both of her hands now grasping my arm as we entered what appeared to be a grand ballroom.

***

The music immediately washed over us in lovely waves.  The ceiling was almost too high to see and shimmering chandeliers floated above us refracting light in countless crystal shards.  The people in this immense room were dressed in formal attire, the men in tuxedos and the women in opulent gowns.  Our entrance did not go unnoticed.  In almost a choreographed motion everyone turned our way and fixed their gaze upon us.  I felt extremely uncomfortable but Greta leaned close to my ear without turning in my direction and whispered, "Just smile, Dear."  

I forced the corners of my mouth upward and lifted my hand to chest level and gave a little wave.  As if a signal had been given, several of the people broke away from the crowd and rushed towards us.  We were quickly surrounded and everyone was talking at once, "Winston... how are you Winston... jolly good to see you old boy... you look fabulous tonight Winston.." and so on.  The women were giving Greta the once over.  

I blinked hard a few times and then offered a simple, "I'm fine".

"He's fine... of course he's fine... a fine fellow indeed... a witty soul, that one..."  The words and looks were intensely fawning and I didn't quite understand what was going on.  My ear picked up the music once again and I looked about the ballroom to see where it was coming from.  The melody was a beautifully melancholic one and was being performed by a string quartet that I spotted off to the side on a small raised platform.  It started bringing words to mind and I began singing softly to myself, "Aaaah, look at all the lonely people."  Of course, it was Eleanor Rigby.

The group surrounding me was still trying to gain my attention but I was too busy exploring the room with my eyes trying to get my bearings.  I noticed that there were at least four other large clumps of people in the room surrounding four other men in white suits.  I caught the eye of the similarly dressed man closest to me and he nodded in recognition.  He placed his forefinger on his forehead and then whipped it up and away towards me in a kind of salute.  His hair was long and he was sporting a thick mustache.  I instantly recognized him as George Harrison of the Beatles.  I quickly looked to another clump of people and saw Ringo double pump his eyebrows and give me a wry grin.  The third clump nestled Paul in its center. He was too busy sharing a funny story to notice me and was jumping up and down like an overly excited little boy in its telling.  That left one more to find.  I spotted his circular wire rimmed glasses and knowing look amongst those in the fourth group.

The mathematics of my situation brought on a strange epiphany; the inescapable conclusion that I was, in fact, the fifth Beatle. 

***

It should have been a thrilling discovery, but all I could think about was John.  My senses became fixed on him and I felt a tingling sensation throughout my entire body.  The noise in the room became muffled as I stood there transfixed.  I watched him intently, his every gesture and facial expression.  Somewhere in the back recesses of my mind I knew he was either dead or going to die and so I was afraid of taking my eyes off of him, afraid he might disappear.  Greta noticed my intense stillness and asked if I was alright.  I looked at her as if in a daze and then gently took her hand and began leading her through the crowd towards John.  

My heart and thoughts were racing as I shortened the distance between us.  I did not know what I was going to do once I got to him.  All I did know was that he was my friend and I had to do something.  The crowd parted for me as I pulled Greta in my wake.  When I finally got to him I dropped her hand and placed my right hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye.  He had a bemused grin on his face as he placed his right hand on my shoulder as well.  "Well Winston, here we are," he playfully offered in response to my silence.  Deep in those eyes I saw that he knew the gravity of his situation but it didn't seem to bother him.  I pulled him into a tight embrace  and whispered in his ear, "It's going to be alright, John."   

***

The music from the string quartet transformed into an annoying jingle.  I found myself clutching a couch cushion with a feeling of wetness on my cheeks.  An infomercial was touting something for "only $19.95!" and I realized I was back in my living room and had fallen asleep.  I sniffed up some snot and Greta's head popped up from my feet and looked at me with concern.  I leaned forward and gave her a hug while rubbing her belly.  "You looked wonderful tonight".

The Fall

Almost 10 years ago this Fall I learned that the bishop over my former parish where I'd first become Orthodox had been removed from his duties and put into alcohol treatment, among other things.  I spent a lot of time walking and lost in thought that day, feeling it was terribly sad, but not without meaning somehow.  After returning home from the park I wrote this poem as a kind of therapy and search for healing.

_______________________________

I read about the fall of a bishop today.
It makes me sad and prone to wander.
I took my dog to the park and let her run.

He was my first Archpastor in a new-found Faith.
He is a lonely old man with an alcohol problem.
I imagine he’s been feeling pretty small these days.

I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

Why do I use such shoddy materials to build a life?
I build indiscriminately, pell mell, without much thought.
It is a poor strategy, short-sighted, a flim flam thing.

How long does it take for something so precarious to topple?
I need something to come and shake it daily, a test.
Otherwise its collapse becomes inevitable, a matter of time.

I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

I think of a story of the foolish building on sand.
Of a myth where a boulder need continually be pushed up a hill.
Of the Golden Mouth praying for help to make a good beginning.

The Sacraments as stones and the Spirit as mortar.
My structure shaken without bringing despair.
The grace of God to start again, more humble, obedient, and careful.

And I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

***

Election Day Blues

Untitled, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

My alarm clock went off an hour earlier than usual this morning to account for a side trip to vote at our local Rec Center before work. It was one of those odd experiences of being somewhere and somewhen that is completely outside of a well oiled routine, not unlike the feeling when I was a kid and an evening school Open House found me in my classroom with my parents at night.

Walking into the building I followed the "vote today" arrows which quickly brought me to a line of my neighbors, many of whom I recognized from our recent block party. We nodded at each other as eye contact was made and faces were recognized and maybe even a "good morning" exchanged but mostly we just stood there waiting our turn to sign in and vote in silence. Maybe something solemn was taking place, maybe it was just too darn early.

From where I stood I could see through a large glass window into a gym where women were doing some kind of an aerobics workout together. In another instance of odd out-of-placeness I recognized the leader as an exercise physiologist at the hospital exercise facility where I work out during my lunch hour. She was doing what I frequently see her doing at the hospital but at a place I've never seen her do it before.

When it was my time to sign in a gruff gentleman next to me said to one of the workers, "May I ask a question?" When he was encouraged to do so he began complaining that ID wasn't asked for at another voting place in the city and "shouldn't everyone follow the same set of rules?" The worker stammered a bit and said that he didn't make the rules. It was more of a rhetorical question anyway and had more to do with a busybody's need to impose their will on the universe. And why had he been at another voting place anyway?!

Upon leaving the premises I ran into a neighbor who we have not had the best relations with over the past year or two. He is normally quiet and somber but this morning he greeted me with a hearty "Hi, how are ya?" and seemed very excited to be there. Maybe voting jazzes him, who knows?

My mind then started to imagine a "what if" scenario that was in line with my own feelings of being out of place and off balance. I saw in my mind's eye someone in a tweed jacket with slacks and a stylish t-shirt wearing a rubber Barack Obama mask entering the building and approaching people, shaking their hands, and simply saying each time, "I'm Barack Obama and I approve this message." What possible motive could there be for such a thing? A prank? Mental illness? Bath salts? Whatever the motive it would probably unnerve some and tickle others. The front desk staff would likely call the police who would then explain to them that nothing illegal was being perpetrated, but if he pulls out a weapon of any kind to let them know.

My overall experience this morning is what happens when you go to vote and you don't have anyone you want to vote for. It's a sad, strange, experience that is hard to explain.