Self-realization...is then less an awareness of ourselves than an awareness of the God to whom we are drawn in the depths of our own being.
The New Man. Thomas Merton. 1961
Merton wrote over 40 books. I'm on the third and fourth now. I sense the author and I walked some of the same roads. He was there before me and went further into the spiritual discovery quest than I could ever venture. The synopsis of his life says Merton is one of the leading spiritual thinkers of the twentieth century. Loved and despised for his social criticism in the 50's and 60's, Aaron would have been fond of Merton. I hope Patrick picks up these books one day.
Common advice to the person in grief from well meaning care giver authors is "Keep busy -- Get back to work -- Get on with life -- Take a trip -- Come here -- Go there ...." No one is comfortable with despair and no good person wants a to see someone they care about in despair. "despair is precisely the specter we would like to keep buried in oblivion by our ceaseless activity" according to Merton. Buried in oblivion I love that description; its definite, strong and permanent.
"Rationalizing and excusing...,camouflaging its own defects and magnifying the sins of others..., the pshyce of man struggles in a thousand ways to silence the secret voice of anxiety." Anxiety breeds in all God-excluded actions. Actions to discover "self" exclude God. Actions to discover God in ourselves lead to honest discovery of self.
In all action where I could post the sign "No God Allowed" I discover anxiety when the dust settles at the end of the day. The tyranny of passion, as Merton wrote, when we chase the wind is man without God. I experience the goodness of God in the moments of uncluttered, non-disturbed, non-distracted peace. When I am true to my feelings-- alone or not, I am close to God. But wonderfully, also, in the deep sorrow of despair, it is God I find. Despair looms as verboten as the Hotel California. No man who fears checking in without ever leaving, will enter.
In despair the distractions of the life of the flesh are not important. Anxiety is a choice. Evil is a choice. But evil and anxiety are not present in despair. God is there. Only God and we. When we reject God in despair it is only we and we are not God. Serenity and despair are the houses of God.
This I accept as true.
Tom
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Marathon Mom - An Athlete in Action
A few minutes before 3:00 PM on May 10, 2005, Aaron and Patrick's Mom was to hear devastating news about her first born. Cathy was sitting at a computer and I knelt down to tell her that there was an accident and Aaron had died. Just keying this makes my heart race and I feel a reawakening of the evil hurt--my shoulders actually ache remembering that moment.
Cathy was an avid walker and got the most out of our health club membership. Aaron, Patrick, and I, the self proclaimed athletes of the family, did little to justify the monthly fee. Aaron was becoming an ocassional participant in pick-up games of any sport, and Patrick, the boy who was the soccer, baseball, basketball dynamic kid had cut down to basketball only. My days of athletic endeavors ended years ago unless we can count sitting in a duck blind or walking behind a pointing dog in pursuit of pheasants. While "the boys" were persistently becoming ex-jocks, Cathy was diligently becoming the leader in physical fitness. She'd come a long way from the day in 1977 when I made the brilliant statement while trying to teach Cathy to play tennis: "You are not an athlete."
Aaron's death was a bomb exploding in the midst of our family. We all were wounded in the carnage. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, the wounds were critical. Unlike a broken bone or torn flesh, no person other than the victim can heal the injuries. Unlike Doctors who have no choice but to use their ability to heal, the victim can choose to decline to heal.
I don't know what it is to be a Mother and lose a son. But knowing the relationship Cathy has with her boys, my guess is it would be easier for her to get up and walk again had she lost both of her legs instead of one of her sons. The work Cathy has done in 17 months is inspiring. Her strength is in her ability to grieve. Cathy hides her pain from people who can't face it, and shares her sorrow with those who get it. The pain is borne every day, every minute and it overwhelms her at times.
In acknowledging the sorrow, Cathy is able to press on. Not as she did before, but as she can today. Two summers have passed and I don't think her heart is in to the gardening the same as it was. I wonder if some of her nurturing spirit has been zapped? Or maybe having lost one of her creations she isn't as interested in helping God grow his.
In the spring we gave up the health club membership, but the streets of the neighborhood are free and Cathy got back on track. Her walking pace is quick...too quick for us boys who all have legs much longer than Cathy's. Her route was six miles. But not anymore.
This summer Cathy decided to prepare for a 26.2 mile marathon in Appleton. A little by little, Cathy increased her distance to 13 miles. She was usually accompanied by our Chesapeake-- Doc Marley, for 5 or 6 miles and then Cathy was on her own for the rest of the way. Cathy wore out two pair of shoes this year.
On Sunday, Cathy made it the distance--- all 26.2 miles! She covered the Marathon distance in six hours. (I don't think I could lounge on the couch for six hours.) Aaron was surely there to encourage her on. She made it. Cathy pressed on when the pain was greatest and quitting was easiest. She added a giant medal to her collection of distance running and walking medals --- she was also the first in our family to earn a medal at the Kris Greening 5 K run in Ripon. (Aaron and Patrick earned their medals in Rippon too. I never did.)
Life is a marathon we are told. By our actions we show who we are. Cathy is a Marathon Mom and the real athlete in our house.
Impressed and Inspired,
Love
Tom
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Change
Three years ago this month, maybe even this week, my relationship with Aaron was coming undone in a hurry. If I was holding on to the end of my rope, my grip was weaker than my will. The fears and suspicions of the summer were about to become the reality of the fall. Either a pessimist or a realist, by winter I projected, all hell would come down on Aaron.
The pictures of September '03 show what friends and family saw in Aaron -- a typical sixteen year old, high school junior, with some angst. When he showed his face, Aaron showed what he neeeded to show. I won't speak for Cathy and Patrick, but to me, my son was gone. Aaron's weakening body was overtaken by a power greater than him or me.
I didn't know better back then. When we don't know a better way, we go with what we know. Good advice wasn't what I was capable of accepting. Instead I envied the Dads who could boast "My son wouldn't do anything like that, 'cause he knows I'd kick his ass." Aaron had already proven to me that any "ass kicking" would not be coming from me. The fear of retaliation was not a mutual deterrent because for that to work, the arms have to be equal and both sides need to believe the other is capable of unleashing their power. I was the only one with that belief. But, that did not stop me from wanting to regain the power and authority.
My efforts were put into going with what I knew: Attack the person to fix the problem. Attack with whatever arms were available to me. The result of that strategy was to drive Aaron and me further apart and both of us further into self destruction.
For some reason God allowed just enough clarity for Cathy and me to make one rational decision just as I had given up. Aaron needed to be in a safe place, surrounded by professionals with experience we did not have. Maybe at this time Angels actually did pluck Aaron out of harms way and placed him in a place where people doing God's work could help him help himself.
Aaron learned a better way to cope and respond. Only Aaron could change Aaron. He learned that lesson before me. A year later I was still believing that I was changing Aaron by changing his environment. "Aaron needs to change, not me" was my mantra. With one more blessing, if not a miracle itself, Aaron used his new knowledge to point me in a new direction. With one unanticipated, matter of fact rebuke from "my son", Aaron sent me to a different environment. That day, at 17 1/2 Aaron had emotional maturity to a level any Dad would envy for himself.
I've prayed that I never forget that moment. It occured in our family-room in exactly the same spot where I first tried and failed at "ass kicking" parenting. The dent in the drywall was still visible that day. What had changed was Aaron. What was about to change was me. Within minutes, I joined Aaron doing my work on me.
For four months and 16 days Aaron and I experienced a beginning of a life of mutual respect. We both knew we each had changes to make -- and now we would work on our own changes instead of trying to change eachother. Aaron died a better man, doing right things. Before he died, I had just enough change and was surrounded by better people just enough to survive.
When I hear familiar stories of Fathers and Sons using assured-mutual-destruction strategies, I wish Aaron and I could sit down with father and son. Dad's don't hate their sons; they fear what took their sons from them. Sons don't hate their Dads; they fear becoming their Dads. When we look at ourselves, we can see what the other sees, and that's the view that makes the difference.
Aaron would say- Peace
"I don't care what you do or where you go, but you have to go somewhere and do something, because you're killing (people)"
The pictures of September '03 show what friends and family saw in Aaron -- a typical sixteen year old, high school junior, with some angst. When he showed his face, Aaron showed what he neeeded to show. I won't speak for Cathy and Patrick, but to me, my son was gone. Aaron's weakening body was overtaken by a power greater than him or me.
I didn't know better back then. When we don't know a better way, we go with what we know. Good advice wasn't what I was capable of accepting. Instead I envied the Dads who could boast "My son wouldn't do anything like that, 'cause he knows I'd kick his ass." Aaron had already proven to me that any "ass kicking" would not be coming from me. The fear of retaliation was not a mutual deterrent because for that to work, the arms have to be equal and both sides need to believe the other is capable of unleashing their power. I was the only one with that belief. But, that did not stop me from wanting to regain the power and authority.
My efforts were put into going with what I knew: Attack the person to fix the problem. Attack with whatever arms were available to me. The result of that strategy was to drive Aaron and me further apart and both of us further into self destruction.
For some reason God allowed just enough clarity for Cathy and me to make one rational decision just as I had given up. Aaron needed to be in a safe place, surrounded by professionals with experience we did not have. Maybe at this time Angels actually did pluck Aaron out of harms way and placed him in a place where people doing God's work could help him help himself.
Aaron learned a better way to cope and respond. Only Aaron could change Aaron. He learned that lesson before me. A year later I was still believing that I was changing Aaron by changing his environment. "Aaron needs to change, not me" was my mantra. With one more blessing, if not a miracle itself, Aaron used his new knowledge to point me in a new direction. With one unanticipated, matter of fact rebuke from "my son", Aaron sent me to a different environment. That day, at 17 1/2 Aaron had emotional maturity to a level any Dad would envy for himself.
I've prayed that I never forget that moment. It occured in our family-room in exactly the same spot where I first tried and failed at "ass kicking" parenting. The dent in the drywall was still visible that day. What had changed was Aaron. What was about to change was me. Within minutes, I joined Aaron doing my work on me.
For four months and 16 days Aaron and I experienced a beginning of a life of mutual respect. We both knew we each had changes to make -- and now we would work on our own changes instead of trying to change eachother. Aaron died a better man, doing right things. Before he died, I had just enough change and was surrounded by better people just enough to survive.
When I hear familiar stories of Fathers and Sons using assured-mutual-destruction strategies, I wish Aaron and I could sit down with father and son. Dad's don't hate their sons; they fear what took their sons from them. Sons don't hate their Dads; they fear becoming their Dads. When we look at ourselves, we can see what the other sees, and that's the view that makes the difference.
Aaron would say- Peace
"I don't care what you do or where you go, but you have to go somewhere and do something, because you're killing (people)"
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Look Away
Some days I just have to look away. Daily obligation of life demand some momentum. Grief breaks the flow. From time to time I am able to jog; I wouldn't say run, definitely not sprinting, but jogging through a day is accurate. I'm content with jogging. The pace feels good.
In years past I would run and sprint. In fact, I ran downhill. Imagine a person running downhill-envision the arms wildly flailing, hands grabbing at air for balance, feet stepping on who knows what, and legs dangerously close to serious injury. Eyes bouncing out of focus never seeing the view, impervious to obstacles. That was me. No time for serious consideration to anything worth doing, just impacting. I like jogging.
Jogging through life enables one to accept help from others. "My way or the highway" as Aaron used to interpret my demands has no place in a life of jogging. Jogging allows time for reflection and contemplation. Part of grief work has been to learn to live differently and accept living differently as a better way. If I tried to go back to a down-hill-sprint attitude to life, nothing would fit and the conflicts would be mind bending.
A reality though is even at the pace of a slow jog, I have to look away some days. I have to look away from pictures of my son Aaron. I love him but when I see his face somedays I just lose my composure. Oh, not all of the time, but you never know. It happens to all of us. The shocking truth that he's gone when his picture looks so fresh and the desire to feel his presence is so powerful, is heartbreaking. Always will be I am told. I understand.
So I jog through life and am learning to enjoy the view. Some days I look at the pictures, the memories, the dreams,... and some days I look away.
Peace
Tom
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Saving Grace
Molly is now 14 years old. Her hunting days ended before her desire. I think her last good upland bird hunt was April 2, 2005 with Aaron. She could still hear a whistle. Her nose is strong, her body is not.
I took Molly out for an afternoon of bird hunting today. She joined Doc and me for a day afield on land owned by a young man who is engaged to Aaron's childhood "sister" Jenna. We had nearly 40 acres of cut wheat field bordered by a couple hundred acres of standing corn. Nothing is more problematic for a pointing dog than standing corn on a windy day, unless of course the dog can't hear. That's a problem and a half.
Doc and Molly romped near me for most of an hour. Wherever Molly ran, Doc ran right along. Wherever Doc ran, Molly tried to run the opposite direction. Doc LOVES Molly. Molly DESPISES Doc. If not for his youthful vigor, than for his uninvited intrusion into her sanctuary of our home. All was well until I decided to walk from one end of the field toward the car--which I had foolishly parked next to the corn field. Once there, Molly was off on scent of a wild bird, Doc was along side and they were gone.
Birds began to scatter from the field. Three to the east, two to the west, and a couple more right at me. The sound of the shotgun brought Doc. No Molly. The last I heard her bell was the moment she vanished in the corn. Too much wind and rustling of corn stalk leaves.
Forty minutes later, after walking the edge of the field and hearing nothing I feared the worst. If she was going to go, hunting would be the way but Cathy and Patrick might not understand. Doc and I loaded up to begin a search of the other side of the field which included a road--Hwy K. A half mile away from the field I spotted a white dog walking west on the blacktop. There she is-Molly. Aaron and Patrick's dog. Birddog.
Molly, instead of returning to the place where she started into the field, traveled South and then West. Eventually emerging from the corn maze at the edge of a sink hole. Being the veteran duck hunting setter that she is, Molly took to the water and swam across. Her trail was visible in the duck weed. Once out of the water, Molly was on her way home to Windsor. Trotting with her head up, Molly was pointing toward home. I pulled up along side of her and Molly was more than happy to jump in for a lift. She likely knew she was a fish out of water. At home Patrick gave Molly a bath, dried her off, fed her and I found her at home sleeping on the couch. Tired, sore, and probably not humbled.
At 9:30 this evening I pulled the roaster out of its basement storage spot. I'm cooking a pile of hot dogs for a Sunday event. Behind the roaster, I found a block of wood I recognized by its shape. Fourteen years ago Molly went on her first hunt and brought home a partridge--ruffed grouse for you Madisonians. Aaron was probably five almost six. With my help we sketched a partridge on the block of wood. Aaron colored it in with his markers. No dull brown, off white and gray for Aaron. Green, red, purple, orange where the colors he selected. I wonder if little kids see things in excitement where we who take for granted see in drab and white?
The art work was saved for a reason I suppose. Some things just should be kept to give to the children of our children. When the child artist dies before the child is a parent, the value of the art work changes. The piece is no longer for giving, it's for remembering what was and what should be.
To my left is a picture of a smiling Aaron, January 2005. In his face I see Cathy, PT, me, our families, our ancestors, yet Aaron is gone and that can't be. My heart thumps in my chest because I am forgetting his presence. I can still recall the feel of the size and stickyness of his hands and the width and thickness of his shoulders.
God we saved so much why couldn't we save Aaron?
Tom
I took Molly out for an afternoon of bird hunting today. She joined Doc and me for a day afield on land owned by a young man who is engaged to Aaron's childhood "sister" Jenna. We had nearly 40 acres of cut wheat field bordered by a couple hundred acres of standing corn. Nothing is more problematic for a pointing dog than standing corn on a windy day, unless of course the dog can't hear. That's a problem and a half.
Doc and Molly romped near me for most of an hour. Wherever Molly ran, Doc ran right along. Wherever Doc ran, Molly tried to run the opposite direction. Doc LOVES Molly. Molly DESPISES Doc. If not for his youthful vigor, than for his uninvited intrusion into her sanctuary of our home. All was well until I decided to walk from one end of the field toward the car--which I had foolishly parked next to the corn field. Once there, Molly was off on scent of a wild bird, Doc was along side and they were gone.
Birds began to scatter from the field. Three to the east, two to the west, and a couple more right at me. The sound of the shotgun brought Doc. No Molly. The last I heard her bell was the moment she vanished in the corn. Too much wind and rustling of corn stalk leaves.
Forty minutes later, after walking the edge of the field and hearing nothing I feared the worst. If she was going to go, hunting would be the way but Cathy and Patrick might not understand. Doc and I loaded up to begin a search of the other side of the field which included a road--Hwy K. A half mile away from the field I spotted a white dog walking west on the blacktop. There she is-Molly. Aaron and Patrick's dog. Birddog.
Molly, instead of returning to the place where she started into the field, traveled South and then West. Eventually emerging from the corn maze at the edge of a sink hole. Being the veteran duck hunting setter that she is, Molly took to the water and swam across. Her trail was visible in the duck weed. Once out of the water, Molly was on her way home to Windsor. Trotting with her head up, Molly was pointing toward home. I pulled up along side of her and Molly was more than happy to jump in for a lift. She likely knew she was a fish out of water. At home Patrick gave Molly a bath, dried her off, fed her and I found her at home sleeping on the couch. Tired, sore, and probably not humbled.
At 9:30 this evening I pulled the roaster out of its basement storage spot. I'm cooking a pile of hot dogs for a Sunday event. Behind the roaster, I found a block of wood I recognized by its shape. Fourteen years ago Molly went on her first hunt and brought home a partridge--ruffed grouse for you Madisonians. Aaron was probably five almost six. With my help we sketched a partridge on the block of wood. Aaron colored it in with his markers. No dull brown, off white and gray for Aaron. Green, red, purple, orange where the colors he selected. I wonder if little kids see things in excitement where we who take for granted see in drab and white?
The art work was saved for a reason I suppose. Some things just should be kept to give to the children of our children. When the child artist dies before the child is a parent, the value of the art work changes. The piece is no longer for giving, it's for remembering what was and what should be.
To my left is a picture of a smiling Aaron, January 2005. In his face I see Cathy, PT, me, our families, our ancestors, yet Aaron is gone and that can't be. My heart thumps in my chest because I am forgetting his presence. I can still recall the feel of the size and stickyness of his hands and the width and thickness of his shoulders.
God we saved so much why couldn't we save Aaron?
Tom
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Book Marks
My book shelf is filled with books I've tried to absorb. If a yellow highlighter could be the syringe to draw the thoughts and wisdom great writers have inked into pages, mine would be filled with liquid gold. Instead, the tracks left by the dispenser run over words I want and thoughts I can't remember. But there they are. Opening a book and reading the highlights, I recognize the brilliance and remember why it was meaningful to me.
Tonight I took this book off of my shelf--Transcending Loss, Understanding the Lifelong Impact of Grief and How to Make it Meaningful. Ashley Davis Prend, A.C.S.W. Red lines, circles, black ink, yellow highlights, notations, reflections, memories all in my hand writing. Nothing recent though. My book marks were from the fall of 1999. I recognized the grief from a different time, a time when I was struggling with the loss of my sister and brother-in-law's son Kristopher. Aaron and Patrick were young boys. The seeds for my growth in understanding grief were planted from this book. Here are some passages and some of my notations. The authors words are in intalics. My notations are not:
The mystery is not that we die, but that we live at all.
What are you going to do about that fact (that your life has changed)? Will the change be for better or for worse?
People are hungry to remember and to dialogue and our country needs to offer outlets for this communication. Angel Inn
Eventually you rebuild your life from the ground up.
You have been forced to embark on this journey and there is no turning back.
A miracle of God is that during the toughest grief we are able to walk where we used to run, to sit when we want to fall, and live when we wish to die.
Take a break FROM PAIN
Whatever feels right to you--whether it's to cry hysterically, or to be alone and stare at the wall, or to be surrounded by friends-- then do it.
...stoicism is the antithesis of true healing.
When a loved one dies,... a part of us dies too and life will never, ever be the same again.
And the fact that humans can be broken and become stronger at the broken places is also one of the most profound and touching of all miracles. GOD
When you stand in the midst of turmoil, stand by God.
To die young is of no concern to me. To wait to be old to live is to great a risk & not for me. 11/20/99.
In the front of the book is a message from my sister Carol. She gave the book to me on September 18, 1999. I see by a notation I made that I re-read the book in February 2006. The note tells me the yellow highlights are from the post Aaron's death reading.
I don't remember reading this book in February, but I do remember the book planted the seeds to my grief beliefs those years ago. Today the book is nourishing the growth.
Tom
Tonight I took this book off of my shelf--Transcending Loss, Understanding the Lifelong Impact of Grief and How to Make it Meaningful. Ashley Davis Prend, A.C.S.W. Red lines, circles, black ink, yellow highlights, notations, reflections, memories all in my hand writing. Nothing recent though. My book marks were from the fall of 1999. I recognized the grief from a different time, a time when I was struggling with the loss of my sister and brother-in-law's son Kristopher. Aaron and Patrick were young boys. The seeds for my growth in understanding grief were planted from this book. Here are some passages and some of my notations. The authors words are in intalics. My notations are not:
The mystery is not that we die, but that we live at all.
What are you going to do about that fact (that your life has changed)? Will the change be for better or for worse?
People are hungry to remember and to dialogue and our country needs to offer outlets for this communication. Angel Inn
Eventually you rebuild your life from the ground up.
You have been forced to embark on this journey and there is no turning back.
A miracle of God is that during the toughest grief we are able to walk where we used to run, to sit when we want to fall, and live when we wish to die.
Take a break FROM PAIN
Whatever feels right to you--whether it's to cry hysterically, or to be alone and stare at the wall, or to be surrounded by friends-- then do it.
...stoicism is the antithesis of true healing.
When a loved one dies,... a part of us dies too and life will never, ever be the same again.
And the fact that humans can be broken and become stronger at the broken places is also one of the most profound and touching of all miracles. GOD
When you stand in the midst of turmoil, stand by God.
To die young is of no concern to me. To wait to be old to live is to great a risk & not for me. 11/20/99.
In the front of the book is a message from my sister Carol. She gave the book to me on September 18, 1999. I see by a notation I made that I re-read the book in February 2006. The note tells me the yellow highlights are from the post Aaron's death reading.
I don't remember reading this book in February, but I do remember the book planted the seeds to my grief beliefs those years ago. Today the book is nourishing the growth.
Tom
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Dream Aaron
Cathy and I visited with a young Mother yesterday. The Mom held her infant daughter on her lap. Another daughter, maybe 5, came down from upstairs playing a pink hand-held game. A typical Saturday afternoon; except this Mom and Cathy were discussing the anxiety surrounding the act of dismantling their deceased son's bedrooms. To do the job soon after the death or later. Quickly in a day, or slowly over years. However the job gets done there is no way to avoid taking the shirts he hung off of the hangers, and undoing the "decorating" so uniquely him. When every moment of your days ache for another touch of his person, to undo his space is to self-inflict a wound to your own heart, soul, and mind. You can't put things back. A rolled up sleeve on a shirt hung where he hung it, or a half drunk bottle of water resting where he placed it can't be moved without tearing fabric of the heart.
We left the house and went about taking care of things on our to-do list. A drive into DeForest would take us past Aaron's accident site. I asked Cathy if it was OK to go down that road as opposed to going a mile out of the way. I looked over at her as we approached the grim reminder. Cathy had her head back, the sun was on her face, and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. I can't imagine being a Mom.
The conflict of absurdity of caring on in a world which keeps spinning was maybe a trigger for my middle of the night dream this morning; a dream where I was losing control. In my dream, I was angry about religion, God, and losing Aaron. My dream rant was emotional enough to wake Cathy but not before Aaron appeared. In the dream, Cathy and I were in our room and I saw Aaron standing in the doorway, just as he had appeared many times at night when he came to our room for one reason or another. We could clearly see his shadowy outline.
The dream Aaron came into our room and layed down on the bed. Cathy hugged him and I hovered over looking at his face. Every bit of the dream Aaron was every bit Aaron--ears, eyebrows, lips, nose, haircut, and voice inflection. Dream Aaron assured us he was doing well and didn't want to come home. Dream Aaron said he would be there if Patrick needed him, but otherwise, "no offense but..." he wanted to stay where he was.
Cathy and I were hugging Dream Aaron, Cathy was holding on to never let him go, when we heard little-boy Patrick's voice on the porch. Dream Patrick was crying "help me Momma" in his voice of 3-4 years old. We left Aaron and rushed to the door. Dream Patrick came in with his friends Amanda and Jackson. Not the little boy of the sound of his voice, dream Patrick was his current six feet tall, with a baseball cap, crying huge tears. Dream Amanda told us Dream Patrick started crying uncontrollably and they rushed him home.
That was a rough night. There's been a string of smoother days. I'll cry more today.
Tom
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