“Then the gates of hell opened up.”
—an unidentified Indiana dispatcher“It was beautiful. And now it’s just gone. I mean, gone.”
—Andy Bell, Henryville
A huge battery of storm cells on a forced march across the Midwest left decimation and loss of life behind it in Kentucky. I felt uneasy leaving home to play cards with friends, especially after an exhausting push to complete another presentation for the music CD graphics. Archibald Whitman scoffed, “Look at your hands.”
Maelstrom
No major outings today, since the B’bach family is settling into Thanksgiving mode, but we did have a good lunch with Lauren and Kellie at the Dos Coyotes border restaurant here in Davis. I continued to correspond with JMM, who is in LA for the holiday (both of us in the same state, but so far away). He responded to my curiosity about the California light with these wonderful words, “Oh yes, my friend, the light is different out here. When the early 19th Century painters took their stuff back east, people exclaimed that light simply does not do what it they showed it to do in the West. Imagine Half Dome or El Capitan revealed from a mile or two, but without air to blur and soften. Can’t be done, they said. From there, we seem to love our American West very much for its revealing Air (Spiritus) and the inspiring of it (Inspiritus). The freedom from the well-worn assumptions of the American East (which is hardly ever capitalized) is necessary for the likes of us that need a new perspective now and then. Your ideas are more likely to be met graciously out West.” Mike is doing fine, but he misses his late father, of course. Oh, I know how it feels. It’s nice to see Dana so relaxed and full of smiles during the lead-up to this holiday. I suppose that part of this adventure is meant as a distraction for us, as we observe our first Thanksgiving without Bruce. It is good for her to be with her family. For me, too, and it’s also a mini-sabbatical, as I spend valuable time with books about key Bay-area painters. Looking at reproductions of Thiebaud’s pie paintings while the house is filled with the fragrance of actual pies baking was almost beyond my endurance. When the young generations left tonight, Bill and I made dinner together. The four of us had a great evening of food, wine, and conversation. It was fun to hear all the old stories of the Breidenbach heritage and lore.
We grabbed a table in the lounge car for an early breakfast. That first sip of hot coffee tasted good after my miserable night. I had shifted from one spot to another, trying to find a minimum level of comfort, including a stint on the floor at the back of our coach car, where the attendant usually stows the vacuum cleaner. For some reason I still can’t stay reclined in my seat for very long. The ugly scrub east of Reno gave way to an increasingly beautiful climb into California. Now I must read the late Eckert’s account of the Gold Rush to fully appreciate this majestic country. Today I shall just soak it all in visually. I keep my camera handy, but most of the cloudy views are for the fleeting eye only. On the long, slow ascent up the Truckee River Canyon, each snow-topped pile of rock or dusted pine was its own quiet work of art. On through the “big hole” to top the crest of the Sierra Nevada range past Donner Lake, and we now begin our descent to the anticipated destination. It’s intriguing to contemplate reversing this entire journey in another ten days or so. How will I be thinking and feeling differently when that departure time arrives?
I got all excited and woke Dana up early when the sun rose over the Colorado prairie. After a long stop next to the stadium where the Rockies play (Coors Field?), we climbed out of Denver through the tunnel district and the 6-mile Moffet. What followed is impossible for me to describe… some of the most spectacular scenery through which I’ve traveled since my rides long ago across the Alps and along the German Rhein. A photo will need to compensate for my failure with words. There was constantly changing terrain, geology, and vegetation. I especially enjoyed the views from Fraser down to Glenwood Springs.
The clarity of tonight’s pre-gloaming was exceptional for this time of year. A view from our bicycles at the high point of Quirk’s Run captured the better part of Boyle County in stunning detail. A companion rider described it as “crystalline.” Someone gunning with a camera in Central Kentucky undoubtedly shot the best landscape of 2011 so far.
March Exercise —day sixteen— I got a project back on the rails and completed today after an unforeseen production delay, and the client was pleased enough to use an exclamation point in his email—a first. Hey, I’ll take whatever small bits of encouragement I can scrounge, because “it ain’t getting any easier out here.” Conditions were still chilly when I trekked over to campus for my laps, but when I headed back home, the cloud cover was breaking up and the air was calm and noticeably milder. The weatherman is hanging his hat on Spring-like conditions this weekend, and they can’t arrive any time too soon. I noticed that the Japanese-style magnolias were fully budded and ready to “bust out.” I thought of my friend from Japan, Yu, my former endurance-running partner, who loved to see those tulips bloom overhead each cycle. I lost touch with him a few years after he returned home, and now I wonder how he and his family are doing in the midst of the crisis. It seems everyone has some friends or family on those islands. The events so far are bad enough, so we can only pray that the worst is over. If not, we are about to witness one of the most disastrous outcomes we shall ever remember.
Today’s sight bite— Tulip tree blossoms, eager to unfold —c-l-i-c-k— as soon as conditions say, “Open. Open.”
Tomorrow— Hold onto your breath, hold onto your heart, hold onto your hope . . .
March Exercise —day eleven— Something had me out of bed and down the street to the soccer field before daybreak, and it felt different than the prevailing energy of the regimen so far. Perhaps it was watching that “Wilderness” guy on KET last night, building by hand his cabin of spruce logs above an Alaskan lake. The brisk air actually felt pleasant, which is a good sign that my exasperation with winter cold has turned a corner. Later, I was glad I’d shifted my swim time from yesterday, otherwise I’d probably not have run into Mike N on campus. Another thing postponed to tonight was the dinner-and-a-movie to celebrate 33 years since our first date. We couldn’t think of anything more enjoyable than having a Japanese meal and seeing The King’s Speech.
Today’s sight bite— An amazing facial chord of sadness, fear, and determination on the big screen —c-l-i-c-k— in one of the past year’s great acting performances.
Tomorrow— The joy of pruning . . .
March Exercise —day ten— Another day of rain, but my mind is drifting back almost a year to when we replaced our roof here at the Town House, or, I should say, after we replaced it. I arose from a fretful sleep and could see out the bathroom window that it was raining. A familiar distress clutched at my gut, and I prepared myself to climb up into the attic to check on my array of buckets and plastic sheets. And then, for the first time in years, I reacted to the knowledge that it was just a bit of welcome rain, that there were no more roof leaks to magnify the stress that had accompanied any amount of precipitation. Everything was fine. I could go back to sleep without worry. Through most of my life I have enjoyed the rain—being out in it, just hearing and smelling it. What a comfort to think it could be like that again!
Today’s sight bite— Sidewalk puddles energized with a steady drizzle —c-l-i-c-k— is enough to convince me that my walk to campus can wait until tomorrow.
Tomorrow— Our date postponed . . .
March Exercise —day three— Morning flew away and my scheduled swim was on top of me before I knew it. College staffers were creating a stone perimeter in front of the pool building for what looked to become a flower bed around the sign. Seeing the men at work out of doors with gardening tools sent a low jolt of some unknown stimulant through my system that triggered preposterous musings about what might have been, had I chucked my day job years ago and become a landscaper. It brought to mind the words of my cousin Dan, when he informed me by email that he’d acquired rural acreage in Ohio: “I think the urges I’m having now were evident in your father when I was a kid, and my father and brother now. I don’t know why I so desperately want to have land that I control, and to provide food to my family and neighbors….but I do.” There is something profoundly misguided about my having had decades of access to one of the most tranquil of Kentucky’s natural havens and, so far, having squandered the opportunity to fulfill that same genetic compulsion. God help me.
Today’s sight bite— Hand-worn rakes sifting through clods of black soil —c-l-i-c-k— as landscapers prepare a new planter at the natatorium.
Tomorrow— An evening with compassionate friends . . .
March Exercise —day one— Unexpected March is upon me. The day is marked by a rare, scintillating clarity that only arrives after a major storm front has passed through the region with its atmospheric cleansing. One mild day a lamb does not make, but this seems to be in contrast to the signal from Punxsutawney. I’d prefer to see the last of winter now. Yesterday, after an overnight stay at Blue Bank, Dana and I drove Mombo into town for her medical appointments during a heavy downpour. With Marty’s departure for USN training, plus two studio computers to configure, the close of February has caught me by surprise this year. Very well. Let us begin it all again.
Today’s sight bite— Vivid architectural facades bathed in pure sunlight —c-l-i-c-k— as I walked to the campus pool for my midday mile.
Tomorrow— Voice-over supervision for the bank’s Jacob T campaign . . .
Bruce liked animals, games, martial arts, music, entertainment, and public policy, but he was first and foremost a voracious reader — went cover to cover through the Holy Bible at the age of nine, and figured he had read through it again at least ten more times. Beginning as a child, he consumed three to five books a week through much of his life. It was only natural that he would devote himself to writing. Keeping in mind his great love for dogs, here is something penned by his alter ego, Elbo C. Buckminster:
“I agree with whiners, of the last few generations at least, that life is a bitch. But I’m not whining when I say it. Maybe the first person to utter that phrase was misunderstood, maybe wasn’t whining either, maybe, as I, realized that the spark of physical in this plane is protected by Nature, the bitch-goddess, sharp-toothed and warm-teated. And, like any bitch, when her offspring are threatened, Nature doesn’t retreat. She bare her teeth, she threatens, she snarls — and she bites. She won’t give up, no matter how overmatched, until the threat leaves or until she is torn to bloody shreds. So count on Life, your bitch-mother, for she’ll not abandon you easily. But respect her. If you misbehave, she may snap your little puppy head off.”
As most of you know, Bruce lost his solitary kidney in his mid 20s and spent 71 months on hemodialysis before gaining a transplanted organ, which would serve him for eight years, until he lost it while battling the devastating inflammation of his pancreas that left him gravely ill, hospitalized, and clinging to life for nearly a year, during much of which he could take no food or water by mouth. By his own account, “I died a few times — three or four, I don’t know — and at least once they were ready to call the time of my death, but one of the ICU nurses refused to give up on me; I guess she felt I still has some fight in me, and she was right.”
Indeed. When he was finally released to tenuous home care, we were told that he was only the second patient in the 100-plus-year history of that Indianapolis medical center to survive such a severe pancreatic hemorrhage. We never learned anything about that other person, but we came to know a Kentucky man named Nathaniel who defied similar odds at UK Medical Center well below one percent, and he helped us preserve hope during Bruce’s darkest days. That was 2005. But even more significant to us than Nathaniel’s kindness — and, of course, the support and encouragement of so many friends and family — was Bruce’s own valiant, grinding effort to meet daily challenges more daunting than it seemed any human being should have to face.
Later (this was 2006, April), to a standing-room-only group of us who met on Sundays to share silence, in perhaps the most awesome extemporaneous public commentary I’ve heard — one of those powerfully unique, you-had-to-be-there moments — Bruce told us that he made it through those grueling months by virtue of what might be understood, as he put it, “lying fallow,” a spontaneous, involuntary suppression of normal cognitive and emotional activity, and I have no reason to doubt it, since he retained only a partial memory of the ordeal. There were times he was so fragile that the doctors could give him no pain medication, even after major surgery. Dana and I will always remember that during the worst of his pain, he told us that he was able to endure it by reminding himself that Christ had suffered even more. Any faith in the future we managed to keep was inspired by this, Bruce’s own profound inner focus and his refusal to quit. Bruce wrote:
“Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when he said, ‘if you but had the faith of a mustard seed’—not belief, but faith. Faith doesn’t require belief, but a deeper knowledge, an intuitive awareness of possibility, even a denial of reality. Faith flies in the face of truth. So while I feel in my bones the existence of a being we, in our ignorance, call God, and the existence of an energy level beyond this lowly one of rock, flesh, and death, I refuse to qualify, quantify, or classify it, because to do so takes me further from the truth, not nearer.”
At long last, he was discharged to confront what he knew to be a difficult three-to-five-year recovery at best, with more surgeries and a relentless cycle of dialysis. Family and friends— that was five years ago. In fact, he went home after that first long hospitalization on Christmas Eve, and that was exactly five years ago this past Christmas Eve. Bruce had completed that journey of recovery, had made a transition, with his mother’s help, to a new, less debilitating method of in-home care, and was optimistic about his chances for another transplant, with a return to school to fulfill his original goal of becoming an English teacher. And then, after all that, the earthly saga of Bruce Joel Willoughby came to a close — when his soul abruptly flew from a physical organism compromised by so many years of precarious health.
We are here to comfort each other in sorrow, but more importantly, to celebrate Bruce’s life, to be inspired by it, as I have been, and to accept that some things can never be understood on this side of the curtain. It brings us once again to the words of Cockburn, who Bruce admired most as a musician and songwriter (and it went well beyond their sharing the name of Bruce):
An elegant song won’t hold up long
When the palace falls and the parlor’s gone.
We all must leave, but it’s not the end.
We’ll meet again at the festival of friends.Smiles and laughter and pleasant times—
There’s love in the world, but it’s hard to find.
I’m so glad I found you; I’d just like to extend
An invitation to the festival of friends.Some of us live and some of us die.
Someday God’s going to tell us why.
Open your heart and grow with what life sends.
That’s your ticket to the festival of friends.Like an imitation of a good thing past,
These days of darkness surely will not last.
Jesus was here, and he’s coming again
To lead us to his festival of friends.
Bruce was troubled in body, but strong in spirit. One didn’t have the sense that he was in decline, but quietly fighting toward a crest, ever determined, never in retreat, but slowly gaining ground, inch-by-inch against insurmountable odds. Always the chess player, he would find a way to extend the end game one more move, one more cunning evasion against near-certain checkmate, yet unafraid of passing, if a stalemate was declared. I doubt if there was anyone except his mother who really understood how hard he tried, including me, but I never lost sight of how incredibly remarkable he was among everyone I’ve ever known. There were times when it seemed he held intact his presence here by sheer force of will. For me, he always will be the true “Impossible Missions Force of Nature.”
It is fitting that we close with Bruce’s re-creation of his summation from those memorable words he delivered in April of 2006, which he titled, “HAH! MISSED ME AGAIN.”
“I leave you with this thought: If you have unfinished business in your life, get to it. Be it mending relationships, expressing yourself creatively, getting involved in community service, going for your dream job, returning to school, or losing weight — get to it. You may not be rewarded with a better economic life, or a longer life, or a happier life, but I guarantee you will be rewarded with a worthwhile life, a satisfactory life, whether it end tomorrow or ninety years hence.”
March Exercise V —day twenty-seven— Nothing could feel finer than the cool air under a warm sun, deep in conversation with my grandson, applying the seasonal mindset to some scheduled yard work. Yesterday I paused in my town walk to chat with the nurseryman from Harrodsburg who provided the library’s new landscaping. We shared our pleasure at the coming of spring, and I silently contemplated how fortunate he was to spend most of his time out of doors. Today I savored a few hours in his lifestyle and then logged a 16-miler on Hakkoch in the late light. It’s a wonder to be part of everything coming fully alive again, and this realization proves that all my fathers still exist within me.
Today’s sight bite— Tulip shoots, lilac buds, and jonquil brigades —c-l-i-c-k— March is going out like a lamb!
Previously on M-Ex— Endeavor to persevere . . . (3/27/07)
Tomorrow— More than one Sunday can possibly accommodate . . .
March Exercise V —day twenty-five— I continued to have difficulty with my “phantom thumb” exercise, so I called Mary Ellen to consult. She told me to just set it aside for now and not to fret about it. I suddenly realized how many other things I’d allowed myself to make an object of daily worry, pondering the connection between stress and vision problems. It seemed a good time to walk over to the Community Art Center with Dana and tour the dinosaur exhibit. We saw Nathan M and he offered to provide us the list of economic development conferees. Later, I sipped a cold Leinenkugel and watched the Wildcats secure their spot in the “elite 8.”
Today’s sight bite— Phosphorescent streaks and random geometric perfections —c-l-i-c-k— convincing me that exotic minerals are more fascinating to my current imagination than extinct reptiles.
Previously on M-Ex— It’s a madhouse! (3/25/07)
Tomorrow— Flying solo in the studio . . .
March Exercise V —day twenty-two— After my tenth round of vision therapy, the balance of the day felt like a refutation of the popular fallacy called “multitasking.” I had little tolerance for more than one activity, train of thought, or sensory stimulus at a time. I accept that one is responsible for one’s own serenity, but there are times when I think that peace and quiet are the scarcest commodities. Tonight is one of those times, after having found a kindred spirit in the author of this remarkable blog. Two years ago she posted a picture of a Minnesota scene identical to the one I viewed from the Bluegrass Parkway this morning.
Today’s sight bite— Twin silos against an amber-pink burst of luminosity —c-l-i-c-k— as day breaks over a landscape carved by the Kentucky River.
Previously on M-Ex— March is for going a little bit “kook.” (3/22/07)
Tomorrow— Executing fleet graphics for a client…
March Exercise V —day six— After an evening with the Clan Night Owls, I needed to sleep in a bit. When I was outside collecting rain water from our big receptacles, I was moved by the look of the library facade against a blue sky. I was longing for mild weather, but the wind was still too brisk for comfort. My main feeling today was pride in how well Marty is handling all his recent changes. Very few young guys understand that it’s really not about the big stuff, but about stringing together a whole series of small, consistently smart decisions. This is a prerequisite for the desire to seek advice, and to learn from the experiences and mistakes of others—which many people never manage to do. I believe this lad is determined to avoid the wasted effort of aimless folly. He has already been witness to enough of it.
Today’s sight bite— The warmth of brilliant sunlight against brick —c-l-i-c-k— in contrast to a deep and deceptive azure backdrop.
Previously on M-Ex— I learn about safeguarding the inertia. (3/6/06)
Tomorrow— Full “to do” slate…
March Exercise V —day three— This time around, the discipline is less about the rigor of the clock and more about concentration and dispatch. My “vision homework” has become a key daily ritual, but hasn’t locked onto a consistent time yet. I have an alarm hopelessly stuck in my cell phone that nobody can figure out how to cancel, so I think that 11:30 am will likely become the scheduled time. Departure for a lap swim was upon me before I realized the morning was spent, and on my walk to Centre I saw an omen of oncoming spring, high up in my favorite tree at McDowell Park. In the afternoon I learned about a new advertising assignment in the “Jacob Series” for our bank client. Later, at the gathering of cycling advocates, I failed again to conceal my frustration concerning local officials. I’ve lost the fire for all the bureaucratic orchestration that I once found so intriguing.
Today’s sight bite— A treetop speckled with crows against a cotton-ball sky —c-l-i-c-k— and their robust “haw-haw” as the creatures salute me with a propitious fly-by.
Previously on M-Ex— Coffee-shop consultation with a friend no longer so close at hand. (3/3/07)
Tomorrow— Library time in my chambre serein…
— Year of 2009 workout totals: Swim-43; Bike-38; Run-1; Lift-3; Pilates-16; Lupus Drill-3
— Back spasms and muscle injuries shut down my gym time early in the year, and I never could recapture the momentum. Eventually had to curtail the Pilates work, too, but assigned myself an improved swimming and cycling pattern. Running played no part in the annual effort. My new hope is that 2010 will take on a more balanced character, otherwise my long-held exercise habit could turn into a flab-it.
— An even more regular fitness regimen is on my list of New Year’s resolutions. I also need to:
• Partake of the great writers—
Conrad, Hugo, Dickens, plus more Hemingway, Kipling, Tolstoy
• Gain new levels of skill with hand, eye, and mind—
Brush Stroke, Graver Line, Digital Effect, Options Trade, Chess Move
• Spend more time in the knobs with Marty
• Take Dana to the west coast — somehow . . .
— Another year has passed, and it is ever gratifying to create things which satisfy one’s own artistic urge, while promoting commercial activity that helps provide abundance and livelihoods to others. But, as always, it is never pleasant to continually justify the role of the design professional in an environment of declining visual literacy, where everyone can stand their uninformed, subjective ground to affirm the inappropriate, or declare that mediocrity is “good enough.”
— An unexpected viral assault has threatened my long-anticipated year-end participation in Louisville, but a counter-barrage of immune system boosters is under way, and, so far, I successfully made it to the city intact for the wonderful rehearsal dinner last night. The final day of the year is a bedridden affair, with fifteen back-to-back Twilight Zone episodes to suitably infuse the atmosphere with surreality.
To Caitlan and Kyle— Happy New Year!
“The chief cause of stress is reality.”
~ Lily Tomlin
It’s hard to accept that nearly three weeks have flown by since Dana and I were traveling to North Carolina, bearing the brunt of a devastating tempest that left 35 homes “unlivable” in Casey County (based on information I learned through the Salvation Army). Since that stormy day I had two wonderful weekends with family at both Broadwing and Blue Bank Farms. Carol and Bob are as youthful as ever and at the pinnacle of insight. Shame on me for taking five years to make a return visit. I was delighted to see how they had displayed my drawing of the old barn, and Pete showed off my pen and ink sketch of the Vulcan stove from their early years above the French Broad. I couldn’t help but contemplate the decline in my sketchbook activity over the past year. During my two days at the Hall, I made an attempt to complete work on the rock flue, but ran into mortar problems again while battling Panyon’s tool thievery. My “Son of Dirk Man” character was a bit of a flop, compared to Jay’s Pappy, Mombo’s Rufus, and Clay’s Donkey Kong. Nevertheless, the day was noteworthy for the revival of our Clan Hayride—a “harvest jamboree,” as Joan called it—and also for her tip about Pandora.com. The Council voted to commission an illustrated map of Clan Valley. Wow, how do I come up with an estimate for that? (Lord, help me finish it quicker than my stone masonry!) Dana called me from town to break the news that our friend Irina had been discovered lifeless, the apparent victim of a heart attack. She was a year younger than me! It took four or five days for me to grasp the finality of losing her awesome talent. Early Sunday morning I decided to tote my Hawken-style 50-caliber down the Valley in search of venison. The ache of a gifted comrade’s passing was on my heart when treetops dipped to let the sun pour its precious gold into our beloved hollow. The goal of hunting for meat dissolved abruptly to a deep reverence for the beauty of our rural legacy and my gratitude for life. When I got up to move farther along the road, something caught the corner of my eye. Four good sized does were now moving purposefully across the hay field. Before I could swing my muzzleloader into play, all were into the wooded drainage. If I’d only lingered a minute more, I probably could have had my pick. The following days were tainted with sorrow, but the request to create Irina’s memorial keepsake helped me channel my emotion, although, sadly, the local printer once again seized the opportunity to complain about our predicable attention to detail. By week’s end, the fabulous distraction of sharing Rick H’s 50th birthday celebration was trumped by the news of Glenda’s bizarre mishap at the Haunted House, which resulted in her breaking four back bones. And this comes on top of her and Jay dealing with the aftermath of burst plumbing and extensive damage to their newly remodeled home. The Graybeard Prospector had the second of two successful networking sessions in Lancaster, and Sunday Silence at Simpson Knob was another welcome break, but the heightened oscillation of desirable and undesirable happenings is becoming too strange. All I want to do is immerse myself in the upcoming wood engraving workshop at Larkspur and try to take myself back to a point of quiet equilibrium. Well then, load the truck and go!
Morning on Moscoe Channel | Barefoot’s Resort | Les Cheneaux
• Marty and I are back from the first vacation the two of us have taken together. We coaxed unhappy Ned all the way to Tipp City on the Saturday before Labor Day and left for Michigan’s Upper Peninsula with Bill the following day. I’ve made many entries about Barefoot’s Resort in this log. I don’t intend to rerun the details, but you know how much I find to love about that setting. Add to that many satisfying experiences with my grandson from this most recent trip.
• My weather report is great— warm and sunny during the day, cool and refreshing at night. The clear sky displayed an awesome starscape, as the breeze laid down almost every night before a brilliant moonrise over the reflecting channel. I wish I could make a similarly positive report about the fishing. Caught enough yellow perch and northern pike to provide a nice taste, but no cooler was packed with frozen fish for the return home. Our only attempt at lake salmon was a strikeout. The era of bountiful Chinook is gone, everyone seems to agree. Nevertheless, Marty had his chance to pilot the Sylvan as I worked the familiar stern down-riggers with Foot, my generous friend.
• Glad to say that I got in my hoped-for endurance swimming. People told me the water was cold when we first arrived, but I soon learned that their perspective was completely different from mine. I didn’t need a wet suit for the first few days. Never having been in the water on a busy holiday, I did make Bill nervous on Monday when I paused twice on my channel crossing to accommodate boat traffic. He was having unpleasant visions of “collecting body parts.” I pledged to be more cautious for the rest of our stay. Sure, I want to keep fit, but I can’t help but think that part of why I like certain activities is that it puts me in touch with a younger, more naive self — especially that little guy who would put a rubber knife in his teeth after watching a Weissmuller flick and take off at full speed across the backyard (without shirt, shoes, or a care in the world).
• I have made this retreat with Bill during most Septembers since 1993. Although Dana and I traveled to the destination with Marty years before, it was different to share the experience on the eve of his turning 18. It was a unique opportunity. Another exceptional part of our getaway was the first visit of my old high-school chum Greg B, who I haven’t seen since 1980. A highly successful pediatrician in Columbus, Ohio, Greg lost the mate of his life last year after her long battle with cancer. We had several profound conversations—true moments of soul contact—that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. Nothing has ever put me in greater appreciation of my own partnership of love, nor helped me glimpse the sorrow of losing a spouse—not even my dear sister’s double devastation. It was a rare, man-to-man insight that I simply can’t put into words.
• A time apart with good friends, and with a lad who holds an exclusive place in my heart. A time suspended, close to the earth and the heavens. On the water, in the water, under the water. Gazing into the wood flames, with the sun’s heat still pulsing across my skin, and the countless points of fire shifting overhead. I shall remember. I shall return.
March exercise—day thirty-one— As I finished my morning walk on this final day of what has become the most experimental month of the year for me, I faced a blazing sunrise and could appreciate the logic of peoples who worshiped our nearest star. My feelings transcended the beauty of a cloudless sky and the refreshing air. Perhaps the ritual exercise inevitably falls short of ambitions, but there is no reason not to look at all that I have in my life and be incredibly grateful. My faith, health, optimism, and creative drive have been restored, and that’s really what it’s all about.
Today’s sight bite— Saddlebreds and Angus (is that an ostrich or an emu?) —c-l-i-c-k— a sleek, reliable two-wheeler is the best way I’ve found to experience the Kentucky countryside.
Tomorrow— Springtime…
March exercise—day twenty-three— With an effort to minding the waistline, I tried to swim laps during my lunch hour, forgetting that Centre’s spring break closes the pool, but the forgiving propinquity of campus facilities enabled me to log a decent track workout instead. This might be the last day of fair weather for awhile, and, if the maxim proves true, we can expect March to go out like the proverbial lion this season. I’d better complete my topiary assignment in the front yard before the rain arrives.
Today’s sight bite— A Bradford pear tree in full bloom —c-l-i-c-k— glorious to the eye, in spite of its undesirable arboricultural reputation.
Tomorrow— Dental work…
March exercise—day twenty-two— Dan W gave a talk at Shared Silence about his “50 Marathons in 50 States” achievement. We don’t meet at Mack’s cabin during this incarnation of the gathering, but Dana and I did go out to the Jackson farm later. After lunch with Marty, we helped clear the trails of ice-storm damage. Mack’s son is using the cabin as temporary living quarters, but there’s hope among some that the group will eventually return to the site for our twice-monthly meditation and discussion. When we got home, it was time to trim the overgrown shrubs along the driveway, which I probably wouldn’t have tackled on my own today, except for Dana’s effective role as “honcho.”
Today’s sight bite— Two familiar friends with chainsaws —c-l-i-c-k— attacking a snarled barricade of trunks and limbs.
Tomorrow— Back to the Mac…