Flung

 

March 29, 2021

 Greetings from the far flung,

 I have flung only a few objects.  Before we wander in, I’d like to identify there is a distinction between throwing and tossing and flinging.  We all have thrown a baseball or tossed a football.  Flinging is a whole other thing. 

 I’ve flung back the blankets, flung off a bad mood, flung myself into things.  Now that I have said ‘flung’ three times I feel like maybe that’s not a word.  Flinged? 

 You fling a boomerang.  I flinged a boomerang.  Ok, flung. 

 My first trials with flinging the boomerang were ill informed.  At the time, identified here only as ‘pre-Google’, I had to rely on drawings I had seen in a book in the library.  If you need to Google ‘library’, I’ll wait, and steep in the irony. 

 Anyway, armed with vaguely sketched diagrams of aboriginal Australians wielding elbow shaped wooden thingies, I went to a wide space near where I lived and gave it a whirl.  So to speak. 

 There are more satisfying things to fling.  A frisbee, at least some of the time.  Darts perhaps.  A witty retort.  The maiden flight of the boomerang was short, in fact cartwheeled longer on the grass than travelled in the air.  With practice, I eventually got it to wobble hundreds of yards away, which is interesting to watch but not really the point.

 The appeal of the boomerang, in theory, is that if you throw it correctly it might come back and you somehow catch it.  I vaguely remember that I accidently got mine to fly in a circle and the concept of trying to catch it sent me running in the other direction, making little girl squealing noises.  The boomerang is really an exercise apparatus, since you do a lot of running in various directions.

 Many years passed before I had another boomerang, a souvenir of perhaps questionable quality.  Ever the optimist, I went to the nearby soccer fields, determined to practice flinging and catching so I could impress my friends.  Really, none of those images were realistic, it turns out; in fact the only verb that proved true in that sentence was ‘went’.

 I flung the boomerang out into space, fully expecting it to arc loyally to my vicinity.  Instead, I recall wistfully, the boomerang whirled over the tree line and vanished.  I like to think it is still flying right now.   Part of me is proud I set it free, and I know it will be happier out in the world.  The other part of me feels silly for writing that last sentence.  It’s a stick.

 Turns out that some boomerangs are not designed to return.  That may sound like I am being sarcastic, and I am, but only coincidentally.  Some boomerangs are flung to knock down wild game, not simply cause a young man to run away screaming like a little girl. 

 My expectations about flinging were based in unfounded confidence, which usually serves me well, except for Algebra exams and parallel parking. (Still some dispute about parenting results.)  So, I am familiar with that brief ache of disappointment as I watched my boomerang spin off to some other destiny.  I remember saying: “Huh.”  It’s interesting how the unexpected can inspire such philosophical thoughts.

 The lesson of the boomerang might be that one should research the technique of flinging, consult with other successful flingers, practice with them, and develop the skill necessary to enjoy the activity. 

 That’s not what I thought of as I looked at the tops of those trees this morning, the last place I saw my last boomerang.  In fact, I giggled like a little girl.  I am going to get another boomerang and futz around and see what happens.  It should go way better this time.

  

Hope this finds you having a fling,

 

David

Grok

 

March 22, 2021

 

Greetings from the gift,

 A few weeks ago, anticipating my boys’ birthday, I found myself ruminating about their first year or so of life.  And of their barely older sister, toddling around them.  Someone asked me what it was like then, caring for four tiny humans at once and it brought back a surge of memories and a realization I had set aside for many years.

 I remembered how hard we concentrated on every nuance of their development.  Our first baby, our first toddler, our first everything in that tiny girl.  And then her brothers, first of everything all over again, and a riot of other firsts.  And our focus was so fierce, so filled with excitement and fear and happiness and worry and all of it in our bloodstream every waking moment, and even in the fringe of our dreams.

 There were rare moments when they were still.  I would watch them quietly play, or look at books, or crashed into their bedclothes in some unimaginable dream.  Sometimes they would be focused on something, learning and absorbing, fascinated or simply amused, and there is a different light in their eyes.  I think that when you are obsessed with someone’s happiness and wellbeing, that you are rewarded from time to time with these little gifts.

 When you are raising a child, you pay attention in a way that you won’t repeat in the rest of your interactions with people.  It’s not something you seek out, in fact most parents seek relief from it.  It’s not sustainable.  It’s exhausting paying attention at that level, when the child’s need is nearly relentless.

 There were simple days when they were still in our care, but now out of danger, when it was easier to relax, but still necessary to tend to them closely.  That time when they could climb out of their own car seat, but still needed to hold your hand when they crossed the street.  It was possible then to enjoy the experience, without relinquishing the need entirely.

 One of my favorite times was when I would take the four kids on Adventure Walks, in part to be with them (and get ice cream) and in part to offer respite for their mother.   We would walk through the woods and they would ask myriad questions, and we would sit in the grass and explore sticks and clover and ants and beetles and I would tell them stories.  But mostly I would pay attention, notice.  I wasn’t doing it on purpose, it was what we were given in that moment.

 Little by little we release this connection, this mad devotion to another person.  We allow them to be independent of us because it is what nature asks of us, for their sake and ours.  A new relationship takes its place, year by year.  It is still bound in love, seasoned with experiences, new and old.  Until one day the rapt focus that tied you together is a pale memory.

What I thought of a few weeks ago was how intensely alive we are when we are devoting ourselves to another person in the way we need to be with our children. I don’t think I spent much time missing those days, except I have to admit that there was a precious gift brought out that we may have too quickly left behind.

 Yesterday we celebrated birthdays, a cluster of dates that we fitted into one afternoon of cake and food and singing.  It was the first time in months we had seen people in person in our home.  It was a treasured moment.  My children are adults now, and so naturally the dynamic has changed, but I had a glimpse of this powerful connection that we began with, decades ago.  I watched my sons and my daughter, listened, tried to feel that potent focus.  It is hard, but it’s there. 

 My granddaughter, Ila, reminded me of this intensity, in real life, not in memory.  She has just one year with us, so Tim and Katherine are living a different life than they had, or will.  As I held her, and responded to her wants, I got a flicker of my own years in that place of devotion.

 It seems unlikely that in other interactions with adults that we could pay attention to each other with this dedication.  Maybe the dependency is part of the equation.  But perhaps not.  Perhaps we can click into it in small bursts.  I’ve looked for some word to help say what I feel, and this floated up; Robert Heinlein invented the word ‘grok’ in his fiction, fifty years ago.  It’s a jarring word to think and say, but it almost tells what I mean.  In ‘Stranger in a Strange Land’ the word meant ‘to be one with’.  It might feel trite until you remember what it’s like to hold your baby for the first time.  That beautiful burden, the mixture of joy and ache, the sacrifice of your self for another’s joy.

 In the process of raising children we have to devote ourselves to another human.  It means disregarding other distractions, but more important, it requires that we silence whatever noise might threaten to fill our head.  It is more than being present or being aware.  It is pouring ourselves into another person, giving us to them.  Perhaps it is what the poets have called ‘love’ all along. 

 Yesterday, in the tiny moments that puzzled into a day of this, it felt like a celebration of love.  In little ways, we gathered up this energy of devotion, and we poured ourselves into one another.

 We celebrate with song and gifts and food, by exchanging stories or offering prayer, or sometimes simply being with someone so they know.  But there is this other thing, this powerful, magic, electric intensity, that exists in us, waiting to find a place to pour into.  If we are fortunate, and we want it in our lives, we will find places to make this beautiful passion a reality.

 

Hope this finds you seeking,

 David

 

Imagine

 

March 15, 2021

 

Greetings from the magic,

 I have a friend who has a son, a bright, curious four-year-old, full of questions and not yet cloaked in whatever keeps people from saying what they imagine.  When I hear what he says, what he thinks of, he allows me to time travel a bit, my docent to the past where my own children were such an age. 

 My children’s imagination is what filled my mind last night, and as I woke this morning.  Beautiful and colorful, original, and filled with enthusiasm.  How they created their play, how they whiled away hours just crawling around, how they filled in first conversations with the images from dreams, or from what a mote of dust inspired.  Sometimes as we walked along, they would tell stories, disjointed and unlikely, bizarre sometimes, all fueled by whatever sparked the imagination in those precious minds.

 It is a gift of childhood, the access to our imagination, when it is natural to express it as we develop.  When it is allowed, encouraged, explored.  It fuels our learning in many ways, and the adults who care for us help us plumb those depths as we choose our way into growing up.

 Ah, but then there comes a time when it feels like more of a distraction than a gift.  When we must put away daydreaming and fantasy and creating from nothing, and take on the mantle of responsible thinking, leaning on the other places our mind is developing practical things that will serve us.   It is an unusual moment when, as adults, someone says; “Use your imagination.”

 I am blessed with an active and vivid imagination.  I can’t say how this was given to me, perhaps comics or creative siblings or reading books, or maybe it was planted in me generations ago.  There was a time when I would draw things, hoping that somehow the images in my head would be transformed by my hands into what I wanted others to see.  But, like the music I tried, it was not a natural expression of my imagination. 

 I imagined many things, and some became creations, and some became my future.  What I imagined became possible, and often became reality. I will also admit that the same imagination, the probably limitless possibilities, also brought fear and anxiety.  Sometimes the darkness I imagined colored my choices.  So, a powerful imagination is not all fairies and rainbows.

 The other thing that is probably true is that my memory of life lived so far has a little of the magic of imagination as well.  I try to remember clearly, to recount truthfully, but people who know me are likely to forgive me if my imagination embellishes history.  So.

 But for most of my life my imagination has served me well.  It has evolved from a place of fantasy, or a cauldron of idle daydreams, into a skill of sorts.  I imagine, see the images, feel the magic of what is possible, and then turn it into words that express the idea.  There are other ways I share those images, including how I interact with people, or lead others, or see choices unfold. 

 I thought of all these things as I had my coffee this morning, seeing it in my mind, forming these images into words.  I wondered how you would see it, if you would find value in the images, would see what I hoped.  Even as I imagined the message, I was imagining those I sent it to, and that seasoned how I arranged all these letters.

 We are given this magic, the ability to create in our minds from scratch, and it becomes part of our life, until, for too many of us, we ‘..put away childish things.’  There are some of you who kept the gift in your daily lives, but for many more, it is covered up with the serious and practical.  My purpose in writing this all out is to remind us of the gift.

 It is refreshing to know that children have easy access to this fantastic place in their minds, a reminder for me, and maybe you, that it exists for all of us, always. That’s what I felt when I started, that sensation of standing barefoot in cool sand, feeling the edge of the water bring a startling sensation of being alive.  Seeing a four-year-old boy blink into his imagination, remembering the little ones in my house doing the same, gave me strength to seek my own.  It’s such a joy.

 I’ll add one more thing here.  Delving into our imagination can be satisfying in many ways, including what we create, or how we deal with the multiplicities of life, and in problem solving, or planning.  But what occurred to me as I wrote these first few words was that even what I see as happiness is a product of imagination, of what I see as possible.  I imagine a moment of happiness, and then somehow my hands are willed to create it.  It exists for all of us.

 Sometime today, find the child in you and ask her to take you to your imagination.

 

Hope this finds you building castles in the air,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

Taking it for granted

 March 7, 2021

Greetings from the bestowed,

Yesterday my sister Leslie sent me a text reminding me how fragile we are.  She was telling me about a friend who is very sick and needs prayers.  This, even while Leslie is struggling with her own challenges.  “We just can’t take our health for granted.” she wrote.

That little phrase, ‘Take it for granted.’ held my attention during the night.  When I woke this morning and came in here to tell you something else, this other image came to me instead.  

I had this flyer, it was folded and refolded, for some reason I saved it, and I decided to take it with me.  I was a senior in high school, muddling through my last months of that prison, just back from a trip to Colorado with my Dad and sister.  It was a great adventure, and we brought back wonderful memories.  And this flyer.  And something else.

I don’t remember how long I had been feeling off, but finally my Mom said I should go get looked at.  We lived less than a mile from St. Joseph hospital, so I walked to the end of our block, turned left, walked five blocks to the hospital.  It was a regal, imposing building, but it was a part of the neighborhood, and it held no more interest to me than the grocery store.  Until I went in.

I walked back from the hospital on the same sidewalks that took me there, still carrying the flyer, feeling no more resolution than hours before.  The doctors suggested a couple of tests, offered to get back with me about mononucleosis in a week or so.  They were doctors, I was a seventeen-year-old boy with a tattered piece of paper from 1300 miles away.

I carried the flyer with me, the one the rangers in Colorado had given us when we got our back- country permit to hike in the mountains overnight.  On one side there was a warning: “The mountain doesn’t care.”  On the other side there were less dramatic, more practical directions about ticks.  

It turns out we would need the tick advice.  We picked up a few, and found more in our clothes, our sleeping bags.  Just when we thought we were done we would find another.  I remember being on top of Pikes Peak and my dad taking one off my back.  He lit a match and then blew it out, held the hot end against the tick to get it to back out of my skin.  Some were more stubborn, died in the process and had to be pulled out.

The other thing the flyer suggested was that some ticks could carry a disease called Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.  

I remember showing the flyer to the doctors at St. Joe’s, making a weak suggestion that perhaps I was dealing with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.  In retrospect, I wouldn’t have taken me too seriously either.  This was probably what it’s like today to have a patient quoting Web MD, but with less credibility.  The doctors indicated that the disease was extremely rare, and I had no spots. 

They were right, mostly, but I got worse.  In desperation, my Mom called a friend, who I always only knew as Mrs. Thurston, but turns out was a nurse at a tiny hospital in small town half an hour away.  My Mom put me in the station wagon and drove me to Wheelock.

I suspect none of this could have happened today.  We walked into the hospital, and in a few minutes, almost by accident, I met Dr. Dutt.  A little while later, after looking at my blood tests, I was put in isolation.

The disease had already ravaged my immune system.  Dr. Dutt explained that if I had waited to hear back from the hospital about my mononucleosis, I would already be dead, or wished I were.  As rare as Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever is, all that you have to do in order to die from it is ignore it.  I spent the next week or so behind glass, and longer recovering at home.  In fact, the aftereffects lasted the rest of the year.

I hesitated to write this, because my story is not as critical as many others, but it serves for this morning.  A teenager walking along a sidewalk on a warm spring day, thinking of plans for the summer, of friends, of fun, of beaches and travel.  And in his back pocket a piece of paper that tells him he shouldn’t take any of it for granted.  And then, what he thought was his right, what he had been granted for life, was taken away from him without warning.

Some of you know this experience, or are connected to it.  But we all slip into a little complacency as time passes, and we become secure that what we have been granted by our Creator, is a permanent gift.  We take it as granted, and in truth it is, but with an understanding that the gift evolves, and it is fragile.

No time in my life has this been made more plain, as the entire world has suddenly been taught the lesson.  A year ago we were walking along the sidewalk, confident in our near invincibility, and then what was granted, was revoked.  There is no warning.  It doesn’t have to be fair.  It doesn’t matter what your plans are.  The privilege of health, and all that attends it, is too easy to assume as permanently awarded.  It is in our care, but not without conditions.

What stayed with me from that experience four decades ago, and more than a few since then, is this feeling of gratitude for what is too easy to accept as always gifted.  With that comes an appreciation for nearly every other aspect of my life that I might take for granted.  I’m not saying I have it locked, but I am practicing.

Pause today and offer your kindness to those who have had to learn this lesson the hardest way.  And remind yourself of what has been bestowed in your own life, and offer thanks.

Hope this finds you treasuring it,

David

Ilene

 

March 1, 2021

 Greetings from the disciple,

 Somewhere in your cadre of friends, you know someone like Ilene.  In a little while you will want to call them.

 “Where the heck is Ilene?”

These are usually the words spoken by her husband Scott, just as we all are about to go somewhere, or order dinner, or the curtain is going up, or our boat is leaving.  The answer to this question is always interesting.

 If you go to dinner with Ilene, she will end up in the kitchen with the owner of the restaurant, and come back to the table with an old family recipe, and before long the chef will be at the table with a special dish prepared just for the moment, which she will share with the next table.  It’s just how it is.  She is curious and unabashed and follows her heart.  Best of all, she takes us with her.

 “Wanna go to that castle over in Sintra?”

“We can’t, all those tours were cancelled because of the fires.”

“Yeah, I know, but I talked to someone you can still get a train and get pretty close and then we’ll just get a ride.  We’ll figure it out. C’mon let’s go.”

And like that we were in an adventure.  And there is live music on the train, and the scenery is fantastic and then when we arrive Ilene says “Let’s get a tuk-tuk, those look fun.”

 And then there is a thrilling ride in a three wheeled death trap up serpentine mountain roads, the four of us clinging to any solid part of the rattling contraption, driven by the most charming young man who is more than willing to share how he landed in this corner of Portugal, and now is our newest friend.

 And then, let’s explore this garden, I heard it’s beautiful, and it was.  And then we are in another car heading for the ocean, and we explore the coast until we find a perfect stretch of beach, and somehow in her backpack there is a picnic of sorts, and we open the wine and toast to the day.

 It doesn’t matter if we can’t speak the language or understand the currency or if we know how to get back from where we are going.  Ilene somehow knows what might be interesting or fun, and we follow her lead and the journey is tremendous.

One of the first fascinating things we learned about Ilene is that she collects dirt.  Somewhere in her house are little jars of soil from every country she has visited.  We could be standing at the ruins of Pompeii and Scott will say “Where the heck is Ilene?” And the answer is, collecting a bit of history to take back home.  “They won’t miss it.” She says, shrugging at the signs forbidding her hobby.

 Scott and Ilene were our friends from the first introduction.  They are wonderful bookends, terrific partners, wildly in love with each other, and both filled with laughter.  We have travelled with them in France, Italy, Australia, Turkey, Portugal, Spain, and Argentina, and more than I can list.  We have sat in the piazza in Florence, wandered in the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, swayed to the Fado music in Lisbon, sampled wine in Buenos Aires as we watched a polo match.  Ilene will say something like “I was talking to this woman at breakfast and she told me about this really cool place…”   And I catch Scott’s eye and we both shake our heads.  We are going.

 Another classic Ilene bookmark: If we order a bottle of red wine she explains to the waiter that red wine is meant to be served at room temperature, an adage as old as grapes, but ‘room temperature’ was much cooler when the idea originated.  People kept their wine in cellars which was fifty degrees or so.  All of which to say, the wine should be served slightly cooler than our room temperature to enjoy it best.  And she’s right, and it’s another reason to have her with us.

 Ilene is a complex person with a powerful personality.  She is fiercely proud of her heritage, of her family, of the things she cares about.  She is fun, energetic, and curious about most anything.  She is a gifted raconteur, a teacher, an author, spouse, mother, and grandmother, and those are just a few of the stickers on her steamer trunk.  She is a person of passion, whether she is taking drumming classes or teaching yoga or golfing or hiking. 

 Every year she celebrates her ‘Brainaversary’, now fifteen trips around the sun since she survived a brush with death because of a brain tumor.  She tells the story with fresh enthusiasm, because the lesson of survival matters to her, and she knows it will impact the listener.  It’s possible Horace coined ‘Carpe diem’ knowing that Ilene would one day embody it. 

 Ilene keeps their kayaks and bikes on her car so that they could be on the road to some adventure without much fuss.  She has a strong drive and it can be a challenge to match her step.  She says:

“Scott wanted to watch TV and I said ‘You can sit on the couch with your next wife.  I’m going.’”

 What stands out for me is that Ilene has been the catalyst to the extraordinary.  I could share many examples but this first one is what I always think of.

 We were in Sydney, and the city offered all manner of interesting things near our hotel.  But one morning Ilene suggested we escape; she had heard of a great beach not too far away.  We were a little unsure, but a small group of us plunged ahead, made our way through the city, following Ilene to a bus station, navigating our way to the coast.  It was only twenty miles away from where we were, but just far enough that we might have missed one of the most beautiful days ever.

 We somehow found Bondi Beach, and then resolved to walk the coastline, to explore as long as we found adventure.  We might never have come back.  The ocean was inspiring, and the path we followed along the shore took us past incredible beaches, quaint villages, fascinating rock formations and cliffs.  We idled at a bowling club, watched businessmen wade in the ocean, sat humbled in a seaside cemetery.  We made our way past Bronte Beach and finally to Clovelly where we all sat around tiny tables at a sidewalk café and sampled the local beer.  We got to know each other, sitting there in the sun, basking in the adventure that Ilene had made for us.

 Ilene is a rare treasure.  I’m grateful to have her as our friend, because she reminds me to have the courage to seek beyond ordinary or expected.  She has shown that with a little imagination, and the willingness to abandon some control and just go, you can find the richest moments waiting for you.  But above all, to go and do, that life is too precious to waste waiting.

 In every group of friends, there is that person who embodies Ilene’s spirit.  Maybe you are that person, in which case, thank you.  Or you know that person, in which case I urge you to call them today and thank them, and then ask them where they are going next. 

 Hope this finds you going,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith