Skip to main content

Returning to Three

Returning to Three

Dour dawns, where do they come from? I wake up in danger and fear.  When did that start? The last few years, a decade maybe. I know as a young man, in my twenties, thirties, forties, and so on, I woke up as bright as the morning sun, ready to have fun, knowing I could walk into the day feeling the warm swathe of life about me, knowing good things were afoot. But that has changed. Perhaps after I left, the kitchen, the desk, the pulpit, after I turned the corner of my careers to a certain age and began to wander about– beginning to feel mortal, wondering how far this retirement thing is to go; what do I have left to give, get or be; that’s when it started.
So I ask, what is here for me to make into a worthwhile day? I have the three writing groups, conversations with my son, wife, friends. And grandchildren, yes three granddaughters. Hey maybe that’s the secret about grandparents and grandchildren, there is pure innocence in the one and the search for lost innocence – no, the search for a path to return to innocence in the other. I mean us oldies, once knew what innocence was and now we so much want a reprise, an encore, a déjà vu. But we fear it’s no longer to be had at this age, because, in truth, we can’t quite recall the look, feel, and touch of that pure, fresh morning-sky-innocence. We feel lost in the vapor of a memory in which innocence resides, fogged over now in a dissipating contrail of time and fears.
Somewhere, out of the depths of our past, our innocence calls for a rebirth. And this seems impossible. Decades of mortgages, performance reviews, words in conflict and confusion with significant others, strangers and friends as to just how we can do this life together have drowned our connection with the virtue of the uncontaminated and good life. But each granddaughter lives. She lives in the pure field of expectation that life is here for her simply because she is alive. She smiles and the world smiles back. She is a special person and it is all good.
Maybe in the next decade I will find the courage to return to those plains of grace where I know I am special and life is here for me. As it was for me then, as it is for her now, as it should be for all of us, always, equally. I mean there is enough to go around. The stars cannot not contain the hopes and the faith we wish to have about those hopes. But, if we look closely, if we allow the natural compassion and grace in our hearts to have their say, we find we do retain all the beliefs and love of the pure soul of the three year old.

William Caldwell




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Youngest Sibling

Youngest Sibling There is (or was, a few years ago) a thing called “the youngest sibling effect” – or something like that. The idea is that the oldest is smart: he has to teach the second, and the second has to teach the third, on down to the last. * They all learn, because you have to put your thoughts in order to explain things. The last one has no one to teach, so doesn’t learn so well. The nuclear physicist Richard Feynman touched on then this when he said that if you couldn’t explain a concept to a fairly bright high school student, you didn’t understand it yourself. It’s an old concept. Heinlein uses it in The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. The protagonist hires a teacher whose first question is, “Well, what are we going to learn this time?” I Have also had it happen to me. I was with this fairly bright administrator at work and commented that it was pretty neat that you could just look at heavy equipment axle assemblies and know how many planetary gears each one had—large ones...

The Rain

The Rain by Vern Schanilec In a 50's movie Gene Kelly danced and sang "I'm Singin' In The Rain". Apparently he didn't live the Pacific Northwest in the winter. I wonder who said "Into each life a little rain must fall". I'd settle for "a little" but a parking lot full of puddles or an overflowing eave filled with needles is not a little. Complain, complain, complain. Guilty. All right then, how about the other end of the spectrum. 31 years ago my wife and I looked at each other and said no more Minnesota winters. Thereafter we left MN behind the day after Christmas, headed west during which we appropriately encountered a blizzard in Bismarck ND as if an ominous sign saying "You'll pay for even  thinking of leaving MN". The blizzard ended through the night after which we encountered Montana followed by the Rockies and the Cascades. Upon descending into Seattle on New Year's Day we saw green grass...

White Face

White Face,  William Caldwell            a flash memoir  I’m on my way to interview Frankie Randle. She is an Aid to the Disabled client of my colleague Bob. I cover for him when he is out of the office. When he gets a call she is in the lobby asking for him, Bob’s usual smile slouches to a grimace. He groans; picks up his note pad and releases a long, thick breath that wants to unravel the tapestry of his chest. Slumping past rows of desks and across the office, he trudges down three flights of stairs to the interview room. On his return, he usually wears a deeper slouch along with a thin, sour, scowl. Although my desk is next to his, I never listen to Bob’s debrief with the boss to get any details. The one time I do ask about her, he scoffs, raises his eyebrows, gives me a blank face and turns to stare out the window, searching for a glimpse of the placid bay, I expect. Since Bob is on vacation, it’s my turn. When the call comes, I ru...