Visions of Anger and Sorrow

I think I'm having a miscarriage. Please come home" So began of one of the darkest periods of my life. Many people tried to tell me why it happened, chromosomal damage and other pointless facts. My truth was that I should have been able to keep it from happening. I should have done something differently. I should have been a better person and then I would have been worthy.  The only thing I heard from anyone that made a difference was "It happened to us too"  
With the passage of time I gained some control over the inexplicable sensation of  falling, the seemingly random opening of the earth beneath my feet. I had even begun to venture on to the golf course, one of the few places where I could successfully focus on something completely external. It was not unusual for me to have the course to myself, or at least a big chunk of it. I have never been part of a regular foursome and I like to play late in the day when others don't. At this time in my life that was handy because I was incapable of the small talk.The Sixth hole of my "Home" course is a par three with the tee shot over water to an uphill green. The lake is heart shaped, from the Southern tip by the tee to the North shore bordering the green it measures no more than hundred yards. Cattails line the Eastern shore, but it is the Northwest corner that had become one of my favorite places. A garden of Weeping Willows has sprung from a single ancestor claimed by the tornado that ravaged downtown Nashville and the East side years before. It was the home of a pair of Red Wing Blackbirds. They were loud and proud of their flowing green home and if I passed by without seeing them I felt lonely. One day I hit a  flush 8 iron that landed just above the hole and rolled back to  a nice up hill leave of about 10 feet. I was pleased with myself as I put my club back in the bag and turned to take one more look at the green to see if the ball had remained on the steeply banked lower portion of the green. A large black bird emerged from the willows flying straight for me. A moment later it was followed by the Redwings.
I had watched them defend their territory from threats large and small and real and imagined but never with such fury. They closed the gap in an instant, clutching, tearing at the crow. Screeching, I will carry to my grave the voice of their terror, and with it the image of their nestling in the crows beak, feathers half formed and sparse. It was alive and struggling. As they flew overhead my voice joined theirs. For a moment I was out of my body flying with them, twisting, diving,  but, I fell behind. Then I was back within myself on my knees weeping without sound, impotent in my desire for violence, watching them fly over the trees and disappear in the valley beyond. 

 

Omens are supposed to come before the peril. Their protection is in foreshadow, our ability to understand what we have seen and believe in what we see.  Instead, I am given this cruel visage of the incarnation of my agony, too late to save myself.  I have carried these images with me now for nearly a decade and thought perhaps too much about their meaning. Perhaps the omen  was a warning about anger.  Within my experience that day was crystalline fury. I wanted to kill, to kill for the killings sake. If I had been an angel I could have destroyed the entire world in the pursuit. I could have done it knowing the destruction of my beloved. I could have done it knowing the consequence, of the death of innocents. In that moment was the essence of Satan's fall. 

To a man with a hammer everything looks like a nail,  and anger was my hammer. I was so wounded. I was so  harmed, and I had this blunt weapon for protection. Anger keeps people away. It makes those that stay with you keep reacting to you, and thus channeled and predictable. For my soul, it was what I had to tear at the dark wall between all that could have been and all that has been taken from me. 

* * *

It seemed that Lewis did not want to be a house cat. We had erected a bird bath in memorial to Simba a Siamese we had rescued from the hallways of the high rise we live in on 5th Ave in Downtown Nashville. Lewis came several times a day to drink. We noticed he had a problem with one of his eyes, but we could not get close to him. But as summer bloomed I started grilling out and the fragrance of roast chicken got his attention. He started getting closer and we noticed he had a hideous infection. It took weeks of  gentle coaxing with bits of chicken and pork tenderloin to get him close enough to touch. It took another week to arrange our plan. We got him used to a morning treat and one day grabbed him. Stuffed him in our cat carrier and it was off to the Vet. They treated him. We needed to keep him inside for a couple of weeks however, and that was a difficult proposition. He was not happy with us. Apparently he was quite attached to a couple of things the Vet had removed, and took our imposition personally. One day I kneeled down to get a look at him under the table in our guest bedroom and he flew at me wrapped his front legs around my arm and using his claws to get a purchase sunk his teeth as deep into my flesh as he could manage.

After that we became the best of friends. We could not push him out the door. He was a "By God" house cat. He slept beside me. Just far enough down that my hand fit naturally on the nape of his neck where he liked to be scratched.  We had 9 years together, we were tight. In some ways we still are.

Lewis developed a form of feline intestinal malady that made it difficult for him to digest his food. The end was hard, it took months. His suffering ended 49 years after the day I was born.

The Morning was dark grey windy rainy and Lewis could barely lift his head. He was stumbling.  It was time to to take him to the Vet and end his suffering.  We all went together. Rowena, Ella and I were with him when he passed. When we left the windowless room the Sun had come out. The rain was gone. The air was still and birds sang.  Rowena and I noted the drastic change, but even when you know you had done everything possible to prolong life, and that going on was cruel, it was hard to accept such a poetic Technicolor transformation seemingly on cue.

We drove home in silence. When we got home the ritual of going through the heavy gate of the privacy fence as a family unit was made a little more difficult by my attempt to be reverential as I carried Lewis' remains in the cat carrier. As we closed the gate we were confronted by an huge black and yellow butterfly hovering in front of us. Time seemed to hang as he fluttered there. He then made two tight circles around us and confronted us again. He flew to the spot where Lewis had laid during our walks together, landed and lingered for a moment. He danced back into the air, passing through the fence and into the back yard. Then,  he was gone.

We buried Lewis under the Dogwood tree, which was a memorial to the Father of the family that lived here before us. He lies there with Simba, Fable, Fritz, and Sheen. 
As the Sun set Rowena and I took our accustomed in front of our lap tops across from one another at the dining room Table. The looking over the edge of monitors Rowena looked at me  and said both our words in her voice. "The butterfly was Lewis come to tell us that everything is all right. He is no longer in pain. We don't have to be sad any more. We can go on." 

As those Words floated in the air between us I went to the Nashville Humane Society's  web site and on the first page was a picture of a 9 month old black tomcat named Lewis. The caption said that all he needed was a place where he could sit and look out the window of his new forever home. He is a very happy cat now. We are happy too and proud to claim another rescue pet for our family. As I write this he is laying beside me in his box on the table.  We watch the sun come out in the world just beyond our window, together.

* * *

Ella and Rowena are laying in bed beside me. Sleep is not easy for in these days after Lewis' passing. The house is quiet and dark. As I close my eyes I am still awake when I find myself on a dirt road on a plain of wheat. Before me is the Pre Raphealite vision of two spirits. I know them. They have walked with me since I was very young. Sorrow is  pale, her features diffused by a soft internal glow. Anger's skin also pale white but has chiseled dark eyes and raven hair. Sorrow's finger tips trace the wounds across my heart, Anger the ones across my eyes,  the scars of our communion. They have come to say farewell. They will be near, but they will no longer lead me. They have been my guides since my fifteenth year, when my father in his long dying illness told me he believed I wanted him to die. It was the day my struggle against thoughts of nothingness began. As they turn and  walk into the distance I feel barren. I feel lost. I begin down the road alone, but as the vision fades I feel the warmth of hands joining mine.

* * *

My child's life joins these images together. Her life may not have been possible at all without the miscarriage. Some doctors believe the cells from children lost in this way help heal their mothers. We had given up hope of having a child before this unborn spirit's passing. Ella's birth is a miracle. All life is. Life cannot be stopped, you can only join with it. Now I know I can protect her only as I protect myself and weapons like anger destroy those that wield them. 

As a Parent my way through life will be fashioned in the way I treat and what I teach my child. My map of the world will be seen in the life our family. The clearest evidence of this was in Ella's efforts to console me about Lewis. Be prepared. Your child believes what you tell them and will continue to as long as you make your own words true. If your child tells you a departed soul has gone to a better place, you must know in your heart that that he lives now in paradise. If you teach her to love life and be open to all it has to offer you must be ready to open your heart to wonder. These lessons are no longer for your child's sake only, they are for your own. 

Visions: Prologue

In a study about the belief in "Luck" participants were asked whether they consider themselves to be either Lucky or Unlucky. In one part of the experiment they were asked to walk a course on the college campus.  Along the course was placed $20 bills where they would not blow away but could easily be seen. The participants that considered themselves to be Lucky almost always saw and picked up the bills. Those that considered themselves to be Unlucky did not. It is not that the Unluckyists keep their heads down in their maudlin stupor, their world does not include the possibility of random beneficial events, so no $20 to be seen. The Luckyists believe in fortune, in positive happenstance, and therefore $20 bills are manifested. Both present themselves with that in the world they are looking for: what they desire and what they need.
Vision is a complex process.
I have lived through my eyes. The visual experience is a personal artifact, one in which I have been willing to place a profound significance. Between the world and the seeing of it, vision and the experience of it, the experience and the meaning with which I endow it, my universe resides. When I see what I define for myself as an Omen; it is a gift from my own better angels. And when my mind is quiet, after focusing on an image,  visions come to me. They are the life I have been unable to express through my own living. They are my soul's familiar.
I want to offer those that will bear witness my testimony; some of what has passed before my mind's eyes. If after these three posts you consider me to be insane, assuming you do not already, that would be altogether appropriate in today's world. I find my life to be equal measure of absurdity and meaning. I fear neither and embrace both with fervor. In fact I find no reason to separate them and little enough reason to find their borders. If this defines madness, so be it.

Transcendent

We are greater than any one moment flowing past the here and now. We are infinite beasts that can only be grasped by the surface. All our yesterdays are here. Every sunrise to come is here. I am forever a child in my mother’s arms, my father’s heart. My hand grows still as I feel my passing from my daughter’s waking dream. I lay beside my lover, soul in soul, in excess of creation. All this is alive, nothing that can exist will ever fade.

Goals

I have three goals.
To raise a child that smiles easily.
To live a faithful life devoted to my family.
To create a home where god exists as a vessel with the potential to contain the ocean. The ocean filled with life. The ocean that we have not fathomed. The depth of wonder. A home where what can be known is numbered like the stars in the skies. The sky that wraps around all the mountains of the earth and the moon. I want to live in a home where the very timbers still carry spirits of the trees from which they were hewn. Where everything that has a voice is heard. Where respect and joy share the same source. The source from which all souls flow; from god's infinite vessel. To do this I must live a faithful life devoted to my family. And Ella will have reason to smile.

Family

I would hope that people would treat their American Brothers and Sisters the way they treat their Brothers and Sisters. Perhaps they do. I have known a Brother that killed his Brother.I have seen people trade their Family's best interest and their faith for a supply of cash that will last them half a year. I am sure it happens for less. I have seen people lavish their Families with insults and degradation. I have seen people turn their backs on those that love them most and forsake the love of generations.  I am watching this within my Nation today with no less horror.
My American Brothers and Sisters I offer you what I offer my own. When you suffer I will be with you. When you need I will provide for you. When you are in danger I will protect you. When you fail I will fail. We are here together and every tribulation we will face together.
When you strive we will grow together. When you learn we will become greater. When you achieve we will rejoice as one. You are my Family.

Silence

Rowena can hear the voices of the silent. And I listen to hers. A few months ago our one eyed black tomcat, Lewis, was little more than a ragged piece of fur placed loosely over bone. He had been wasting away for weeks; unable to digest his food. At one point he was unable to hold his head up. He leaned his head against the side of water dish to drink. I had come to terms and was ready to take him one last time to the vet. Rowena had spent many hours sitting beside him through his suffering, the way a Christian does, and although she had come to terms with his end as well she said that he was asking her not to give up. He wanted to live. He was trying. Since then Lewis has put on a full cat's weight. He has bad days when the suffering continues. But like all of us he is still trying to live.

One difficulty we had in during his recovery was a sudden desire, on his part, to go outside. After we first took him in, rescuing him from a grizzly death, he shunned the outer world. He run away from an open door to hide in small spaces in his new home. But now he tried to escape every time we let the dogs out. We were afraid he wanted to find a place to be alone to die and we would not let him go. But our faith in his actions has renewed along with his health. This morning he and I went outside together.

We have fenced our entire yard so he is safe. His big tomcat head is too big to fit through the fence and it is too tall for him to jump over at this stage in his return. He walked around the perimeter by the street and our neighbors driveway while I sat on the porch with my coffee, but when he headed for the back yard I decided to go with him just in case there was a place in the sub fence that divides front from back that he could squeeze through. We moved very slowly together past the Hydrangeas and Day Lilies then the Dogwood until we came to the Crepe Myrtle that blossoms over the fence, softening what had once been a sharp edge. Under the Myrtle he sat, crossed his legs neatly under himself in warm dirt of the constant shade.

I swear in the wind I heard "this is the spot" It was not a spot I would have chosen. No place for me to sit. But Lewis has his own point of view about perfection, so I sat my cup down on the fence post and took a good lean against the gate to take in the welcome mutual silence that can only be appreciated with a good friend.

 Four young squirrels played in the Pignut Hickories; eight of them tower above the quarter acre expanse within the 6 foot red cedar privacy enclosure behind the house. Each has nurtured and sheltered dozens of generations of grey squirrels. After all their leaves fall their nests can be seen in the highest limbs forty feet above the ground. But on this early September morning the long limbs are a playground and the young are chasing each other with sheer abandon jumping from branch to branch in a race that would claim a mile if on the ground. After sampling each tree's playful possibilities the game moves on to our neighbor's yard and then the next until the hummingbird's drone drowned out the sound of their antics. We have a feeder on the deck and the little birds dive from the shelter of the Huckleberry tree to sip. It seems like there are a dozen of them but perhaps only two busily taking turns. Only after they have their fill do I notice the huge brown spider spinning it's web. It's a Garden Orb Weaver and in the 20 minutes I watched it create a masterpiece 5 feet in diameter. When I was younger, but not much, I held a great antipathy towards spiders and I would have quickly dispatched both web and weaver. But Rowena and Buddhist Monks have convinced me that I can live in peace with them - so I take and the last sip of coffee and consider that one day a spider may have something to tell me; if I can share its silence.

When I turn to look at my feline friend, he winks (could be a blink but since he only has one eye it can be taken either way) as if to acknowledge what we just shared. It's about time for my family to be waking up so I sweep Lewis into my arms. He purrs in heavy draughts as we walk to the front door and the sleepy Sunday morning waiting for us to share with our family.

 The world has never asked me to be silent, but it rewards me when I am.

Listen

"Listening, not imitation, may be the sincerest form of flattery. "

Dr. Joyce Brothers

Everyone thinks they listen. We rarely do. We hear. We pose while our mind wanders. We make a decision three words into a sentence where that person is going and plan our reply. Listening is an act of commitment; an act of faith.

To get get a feel for listening try overt action in a low pressure, temporary relationship. For example. The next time you go shopping in a store that employs service people and the employee comes to ask you if they can be of assistance turn to face them, look them in the eye as they speak. Wait for them to finish and let the sound of their words resonate in the air. Be honest with them. Let them do what they are paid to do. Ask them a question about why they chose a particular item over another. Keep eye contact with them. Do not rush and do not interrupt. If they do not have what you need or like ; thank them for their time and leave. You have risked nothing and you will learn much about your ability to be patient and accept the thoughts of others if for no other reason than the idea that those thoughts exist.Eventually this will seep into the relationships that matter to you.

Rowena talked for years against the public school system and for home schooling but I did not really listen. I heard only enough to make a decision about why this was important too her. I was wrong. Wrong to discount huge blocks of her arguments. Wrong about what was important to her. She had made clear, thoughtful, well researched, conclusions and I had been unwilling to step outside my preconceptions. The act of listening and accepting her thoughts, her good will, and her wisdom has rewarded me with a peaceful home filled with beauty and potential. Ella loves to learn and Rowena is a Teacher in the most wonderful ways. My life is better. Better because of simple acts of Commitment and Faith.

Service

Standing beside the helicopter is my Father, James Edwin Aldridge. He served in two branches of the military. The Navy, which he joined when he was underage, and the Army from which he retired as a Warrant Officer. His service spanned three decades and as many wars. 

During WWII he took advantage of the boredom of duty on Saipan to get the education he was denied as the oldest son of a subsistence farmer and coal miner in Kentucky. He always praised the military for this. The Armed Forces gave him freedom from poverty and ignorance; as it has for countless young men and women.

Korea seemed to define his military career for him. He was in a Ranger unit, from the 505th Airborne, when the Chinese joined the conflict. He always said that his greatest accomplishment in the military was never losing a man while he was on the line with his unit. He cursed the time he was in a field hospital, he never watched MASH, I think more for the fact that some of his men died without him as much as the pain of recovering from a grenade blast. He carried shrapnel from that attack until his death, along with the pain and guilt over his fallen friends.

He never talked much about his time in Indochina from 66-67. He said it was the only time he had ever been truly afraid. I never pressed after he said that, if it was worse than Korea I didn't want to know.

 My Father never claimed that he joined the military out of love of country; he joined as a matter of survival. But the act of serving, his duty, changed him. In the early sixties we were stationed in Washington, DC. One of his duties there was to evacuate the constitution in case of Soviet attack. Although he never had to fulfill this plan, he got to see the document. It became personal to him. He could read it to me from memory. He carried a copy of it everywhere in the years just prior to his death. It was like a shield. It was like a picture of his family. 

It wasn't until Ella came into my life that I began to understand. I loved my wife, and I would have given my life for her without hesitation. But, I would kill for my family, with or without remorse, whether the act saves my life or costs my mortal soul. 

On Memorial Day we should remember the other great sacrifice our soldiers offer; separation from the people they love, often years at a time. This is the great tangible loss suffered by nearly everyone that puts on the uniform. We should honor the living for what they give a chance to sleep in safety, in our own beds. I have never been one to pray, but I am when I am away from my family. I pray for one thing - another day with Ella and Rowena. It is the only thing I want and so far the answer has always been yes. And perhaps if my Father's vision of heaven is real he and I will spend another day together, in a large vegetable garden. We will hoe. We will sweat. We will eat the sweet corn right off the stalk in neat, well tended rows of paradise.

Marriage

Rowena and I were married in the same Church by the same Priest that baptized Ella. For one religious rite the government claims dominion. For one of these religious rites the government claims it proper place. There are places in the world where my daughter's baptism in the Catholic Church would be her key to a better life. There are places in this world where it would be her death warrant. When governments get involved in the Sanctity business injustice and evil follow.

Except for branding experiences promulgated by major political parties our government is not interested in matters of holiness. Our government is occupied almost entirely in matters of property rights. And that is it's role in civil law pertaining to marriage. Who gets what. Who inherits what. And what is Uncle Sam's cut. 

In America when it comes to money we have established one egalitarian rule. Everyone gets a shot a the gold ring without discrimination towards the shape, color, or extracurricular activities you have for your plumbing. So here in the land of the depleted 401K the question is not who gets to play. The question is do we heterosexuals want to keep the ALL the benefits that go with Marriage? Including the conceit that when two people stand before god and proclaim their love and devotion, we stand behind them.

Searching

I am still searching for 

my relationship to 

the images I create. 

Dance

Exult in the Joy of Being Alive and You Will Feel the Earth Dancing Around You

Possession

This is my wedding ring. It is the only thing I own that matters to me. 

In the fifteen years I have worn it not only has my love and commitment to Rowena grown but also my capacity to cherish, to hold dear, everything and everyone in my life. What it symbolizes has become my connection - the new beginning of my attachment to the world to which I am born and through which I travel hand in hand with my beloved.

Constant

It has been ten months since I have posted. Someday I will write about the many things that have transpired. There have been some big changes. But for the next six posts I want to tell you about the things that have not and will not change.