Beauty at solstice

Some thirty years ago when I was about that age, I remember hearing my dad, who was in his early 60s at the time, say something about his own death. I was pretty stunned. I mean, he was healthy and as far as I could tell, still feeling like a ‘young’ man. He still enjoyed to fish and camp. Still got on his knees and installed carpet. Still loved playing Santa at Christmas. Seemed like an unnecessary dwelling on the morbid to me.

Of course, being 30 and feeling one’s oats with a young family, like myself, can leave a guy feeling pretty impervious to the inevitable. Life was mighty sweet back then. No sense in considering the end of it.

Over the last couple of weeks, though, I’ve had a recurring thought that has given me pause. I was sitting on the back porch, appropriately enough, looking up into the neighborhood canopy of trees late in the evening. All of our trees were in the gloaming darkness at the time, but one tall crown a few blocks north still glowed brightly in a brilliant sunset. Temperature was pleasant. Birds still chattered, awaiting the quiet darkness would bring. All my senses told me what a beautiful moment it was.

Then I thought: There will come a time when you won’t be able to experience all this. Eyes might fail. Sickness might make just sitting on the porch an effort. Anything could happen. Then I was reminded of mindfulness and how every moment lived is the one to savor. I took another sip of my cold beer. Life was good. Right then. I was thankful.

Still, things change and I will end up giving up physical gifts. No doubt about it. Cindy, Noah, and I spent some time with my mother this week. She’s still motivating very well at age 89. She still fixes her own meals, watches Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune every evening between 7 and 8, always works the newspaper crossword puzzles, and walks the hall of her apartment building multiple times daily. As I’ve told lots of people, If Mom doesn’t live to be 120, she’ll be pissed. I suspect that’s true. Still, on one of her walks up the hall a couple weeks ago, she turned, just like she had so many times -- and fell. Hard on her right side. Hit her face just above her glasses. Thankfully, no bones were broken, but she’ll have some technicolor bruises for a while.

But she could have broken a hip. And from what Cindy and I have seen and read about over the last few years, breaking a hip can be the beginning of the end for a body. Mom was lucky. And feeling pretty dumb these days, to use her words. She doesn’t want to walk much now, though thinks she’ll get back to it in a week or so. She has been very wary of where her feet are and recognizes she can’t see as well as she’d like. Still, being careful wasn’t enough.

And here we are at summer solstice. On December 21, when Cindy Lou and I celebrate our wedding anniversary, we know it’s the longest night of the year, but the truly cool thing is that even though winter is just beginning, days are beginning to get longer. It’s a comforting thought. In the middle of darkness, the sun is on its way back. Summer solstice? Lovely sun, but it begins its journey back south tomorrow. Fall and winter are inevitable. As are our loss of gifts.

I’m a Western culture guy who runs around pretty busy most of the time. The Puritan ethic this country raised me on encourages us all to keep moving, get an education, get a job, raise a family, and contribute something of value to life on the planet. The idea of being still and present is the stuff of vacations on the beach. Zen mindfulness, while appreciated and practiced, most often seems to be on the periphery of my awareness.

So, I suppose we can conclude that life is a dichotomous struggle. Mind wants to go one way, teaching wants to direct us back another. And so it is, with such a ride of variables along the way. I feel damned lucky to be here.

Today’s elder idea: For Mom -

I shall keep singing!

Birds will pass me

On their way to Yellower Climes -

Each - with a Robin’s expectation -

I - with my Redbreast -

And my Rhymes -

Late - when I take my place in summer -

But - I shall bring a fuller tune -

Vespers - are sweeter than matins - Signor -

Morning - only the seed - of noon -

Emily Dickinson

Franklin #270 (1861)