The Beauty of Lizards

Night makes mirrors of the windows. I drink coffee sitting in Sandburg’s city of the “broad shoulders”. Random thoughts. Nothing in my head but mush. Struggling to write, I reach for my old familiar muses of sadness and despair. Nothing. Perhaps the rare burst of love and happiness are waiting. Again nothing. But I will write. Keeping the words in my skull leads to abscesses of the brain. Maybe the lines will come from a little gratitude…a little chance for wonder…maybe…

Beauty buys coffee and flashes a smile. Beauty sleeps in the bed where I slept. Beauty flows by in the traffic that is somehow choreographed to the beat of Marvin Gaye as What’s Goin’ On floats from the speakers. I stare at a sparkle of light in my cup until it dissolves into a prism of color. The prism expands, filling my vision. It is enough.

I find myself running in the backyard of our Nederland house. The grass is brown from the late summer drought that bakes everything. Soon the rains will come drenching the black gumbo clay, flooding streets, and bringing the occasional hurricane.

The yard is full of hazards – stones, cockleburs, and sometimes even a piece of glass. These are nothing to me. The soles of my feet are black, tanned leather from months and years of going barefoot across lawns, cement and gravel.

I am running to Jeff’s house. Jeff of the red hair and so many freckles it is hard to tell if his skin is white with red spots or red with white spots. His house is across the field from mine. We spend days together running in the sun, building forts in the empty lots, crying when we are forced to come in at night.

Today as I run, something catches my eye. There, on a firethorn bush, the kind with the orange-red waxy berries, is a tiny lizard. It writhes in agony. It was put there by a jaybird or a maybe a mockingbird. I have watched them do it. They will catch a lizard and then stick it on a thorn until it stops wriggling, making it easier to eat I guess.

As a child I found this horrible. But today’s journey through the scene is with eyes a half-century older. I see only harmony here. Nothing terrible. The birds chicks are waiting for the lizard to stop writhing. They will quickly eat it, growing strong to make more chicks. The lizard’s young will be fine, they are able to fend for themselves as soon as they hatch. Life has deep wisdom and beauty.

The same is true for we naked apes, or, if you insist, we pinnacles of creation. We will find ourselves writhing on our own thorn someday. The thorn may be cancer, simple old age, or something as spectacular as a hurricane or other natural disaster. Regardless, we will pass from this life. Our passage may be peaceful or in agony, but pass we will. Today I see my future passing as a thing of beauty. I am fortunate beyond measure to simply have glimpsed life, much less experience it for more than half a century. I may see the future end of my life as beauty or tragedy. I will seek to find it beautiful. Not a goal to be sought but a flower to be appreciated once it is offered. Until that time I pray to smell every flower, know that the world is filled with love not evil if I only choose to see it, and see the beauty…share the beauty…live in the beauty that is all around me.

The Beauty

Comfort of Old Men

We are the old men. We sag in inappropriate places. Liver spots have replaced the cuteness of freckles on our skin – skin that has begun to resemble tissue paper, tearing easily, leaving us wondering “now where did that cut come from?”. Our movements are accompanied by unconscious moans, grunts or wheezes. Flatulence has become an art form. Hair sprouts evermore profusely from our nose, ears and ass while it leaves our heads. We would take decisive actions for self-improvement if we could remember what they were. Yes, we are the old men; those who have lived far beyond the 30 to 40-year warranty originally granted out species.

Sometimes we are enraged and fearful of the decline. We buy ever more expensive cars and homes. We fluff up and pamper the little bits of beauty nature has left us. We scramble after women younger than our daughters. Unable to love ourselves as we age, we push away those who would love us. Fearful that they will not love us enough to care for us, we fight to pass laws that conserve our control over the world’s wealth and power. We dream that science may discover a way for us to be immortal. We claim ultimate knowledge of what is the “right” path for creation based on our religion, philosophy or science. We are willing to sacrifice anything for more life – our peace of mind, the planet’s resources, and our children’s future.

At other times we glimpse the beauty of the cycle of life and death. We welcome each day with wonder. Letting fear drop from us, we can see deeply into a butterfly’s wing with the same wonder and joy of a child. If we do not have grandchildren, we smile and wave at the children of others. We form new friendships over a cup of coffee. We get out and wander around – not worrying about how we look, knowing that even a toothless, hairless smile can dress up even the poorest suit of clothes. Embracing our frailty, we willingly hand over the power for decisions to our children. We know that they will make mistakes but we recognize their right to make them just as we made our own. We accept that we are not in charge of their future, just as our parents never were in charge of ours. We share our possessions with those who have nothing because we know living in a “dog eat dog world” creates dogs not human beings. We find peace.

If we are truly lucky we simply accept that we are old men growing ever older. We relax and enjoy each breath. We have nothing left to prove. We find peace knowing that the only lasting legacy is our circle of friends. Grand ideas, monuments, empires – and yes we old men, all fade into starlight in the end. May I be lucky enough to be the starlight seen years from now by another old man as he looks up into the night. May I begin shining today.

Morning Prayer

I think sometimes writing is a form of prayer for me. A prayer to understand others and be understood by them. This piece is a bit wordy and pedantic but it is what was there in my head. Sometimes I AM wordy and pedantic. I will send the piece on and I know at least one person will read it. To that person - thank you.

Fall's bite is in the air. A few early risers are on their way to work – coffee shops, restaurants and maybe a grocery story or two. I “camped” at the apartment last night. Grace and I are redefining who we are as a couple once more. Neither of us is certain of where the journey will take us. There is certainty of a deep and abiding love, all else seems to shift before us. Perhaps change and uncertainty are inevitable.

READER – SKIP TO ENDING UNLESS YOU ENJOY PSEUDO-PHILOSOPHICAL DRIVEL

Last night I visited with friends. Conversation ranged wide and far. At the end of the evening, the discussion shifted, as it inevitably must – to the topics of religion, spirituality and science. After all I live in a university town. Not much light was shed on the subject, but I did learn one thing. Unlike my younger days, I am able to discuss the subject without becoming too upset. I think it is because I have made at least some progress in accepting the idea that there very likely are no certain answers and that if there are, I for one, do not know them. Life is easier when I accept the certainty that I likely will remain uncertain about much of it. Unfortunately, some are not willing to allow me this simple luxury. When I say, “I’m not certain but based on what we know the probability is…” they use the gap in evidence and proof that my position is meaningless. Then they strive to convince me of the certainty of their position without providing any evidence other than faith or intuition. When I hold fast to my need for evidence, they can become frustrated and assert, “You know in your heart (or more grossly put – your gut) that what I am telling you is true, you simply are refusing to accept it.”

Nothing could be further from the truth. It is just that my life has led me not to be concerned about placing too much reliance on “my heart” or faith in some “certainty” as a guide for my actions. My first inclination is to look to the evidence – or as I define evidence, those phenomena that all of us can share and validate independently of one another. Then when I have exhausted the evidence, as I certainly will because our knowledge is incomplete, intuition may indeed be of help. When I trust my heartfelt “revelations” and the certainty they bring, I can I end up in places where I can no longer distinguish revelation from hallucination. In Japan, my gut once told me that I was speaking with the goddess Gaia. Luckily, I still had sufficient reason to check out the evidence before following her guidance. Gaia offered me the certainty of my gut feelings as a basis for my actions. Instead, I chose to base my decisions on probabilities rather than certainties. Was it more probable that I was speaking to a god or that I was in a hotel room withdrawing from some fairly potent psychotropic medications? I chose the probability that I was in a hotel room. I have little doubt that my life is better because chose probability over certainty.

I am confronted with the certainty versus probability dilemma every day. I accept that I can never gather full evidence for each and every decision. I cannot become a heart surgeon in order to decide whether or not to follow the direction of a heart surgeon. Does this mean that I must resort purely to my gut and base my life on emotional choices? I have made, and undoubtedly will make some choices this way and suffer the consequences. However, I also know that it is possible to examine my life through the lens of science and reason, weigh the probabilities and accept life’s uncertainty. When in this space I need not fight anyone or anything. I can accept myself and others. Rather than judging another I can simply reflect on the question – “I wonder why they think that way?” I need not fear them. I need not judge them.

ENDING

Will this winter be colder than normal? Will there be a deeper friendship and love between Grace and I? The tiny mammalian brain atop my limbic system wants definite answers to this question. It is fearful that without certainty its life will end. Thankfully, my brain is a human brain. This brain tells me that the answers to these questions are still uncertain – yet it also tells me that I can look to the almanac for probabilities about the weather and that “more will be revealed” in the course of time. Meanwhile, the probability is that life will continue for this day and that my “job” is to simply be alive and try to act with kindness.

Outside, fall continues to come on. Inside there is warmth and a parade of people at the coffee bar. Tall, short, fat, fit, perfumed, “au naturale”. Human. What a wonder and what silly little monkeys we are. We are tiny beyond insignificance on the cosmic scale, yet we are able to view and at least comprehend that very cosmos. Some Native Americans called themselves human beings, meaning it as source of wonder and humility – not as a statement of our certain position as rulers of the planet. Today I am a human. It IS wonderful of that I AM certain. Well, at least for the most part.

A Second Hill

The road is dark. Ahead in the tall grass of the ditch two red dots reflect light back to me. The dots scurry away. I come to the stop sign for the highway leading to town and take a right. Southward I can see the glow of the city. Another day has begun.

As I head to the bottom of the first hill a white t-shirt flashes in my headlights. I catch a brief glance of a young man – arm raised, black baseball cap, jeans – as I whiz past. I tap my brakes in anticipation of stopping but decide it is best to be safe. I speed back up for my journey into town.

At the bottom of the second hill I change my mind. I turn around at the next crossroad and head back up the hill. I drive further than I remember traveling and I begin to wonder if I imagined the man. Then I see him. He his carrying a paper bag. Too many hours of watching cable news makes me wonder if the bag contains drugs, or worse, a gun. He sees that I have returned and the look of hope in his face makes me commit. Drugs, gun or not – I stop the car. This could be seen as risky behavior – perhaps I am embarking on yet another episode of bipolar mania. Oh well, may as well relax and enjoy the ride.

I am relieved when I see a face that looks sober. The face smiles as the young man wearing it slides into the seat next to me.

“So, where do you need to go? Iowa City?”

“No. I’m going to Solon, is that okay?”

Solon is the exact opposite of where I was heading but I have some time to kill before the coffee shop opens.

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

I press the gas and we head north into the night. We ride for several moments in silence before the young man extends a hand.

“My name is John. And yours?”

I shake John’s hand. I can feel the calluses of carpentry or farming.

“I’m Dale. So, John what brings you out so early?”

“I got a DWI and they let me out of jail early.”

I laugh. “I’m familiar with DWIs.”

John tells the story of my life at his age – too much to drink, too little patience and a fear that life will never be what I expect and need it to be. Of course there is a woman and there is a fight and there is the heartbreak of separation. I resist the urge to give direct advice - difficult for someone of my immense wisdom. But I cannot resist a statement or two aimed at sharing personal experience.

“Yeah. I remember that I used to think, ‘I don’t get in trouble every time I drink.’ But then I came to realize that pretty much every time I got into trouble I had been drinking.”

John agrees and laughs obligingly but I can tell I have gone a bit too far. I retreat.

“But in the end I guess each of us has to find their own path…”

I hear a deeper note in John’s voice, “You got that right.”

Then we reach the end of our journey.

“Up here on the right. The brick house just past that car.”

I drive away. As usual I reflect on my actions. Dissect is more like it. Was it a good thing to help John? Was I engaging in risky behavior associated with being bipolar? Was I simply being self serving, trying to play out some role as a good Samaritan? Would it have been better for John to suffer the full consequences of his DWI by having to walk to Solon? Like it or not – this type of chatter follows me every day. I practice my breathing and by the time I reach the coffee shop, I am able to let go and leave it to life to sort out. I meant the act as one of kindness. That is the best I can do. The universe will have to determine the cosmological significance of me meeting John. I will settle for a good cup of coffee.

Anniversary

September 11, 2009

200 mg Depakote

Mood – 7 out of 10 (where 10 is God’s orgasm)

Today is the anniversary of the loss of my kidney and the death of my business career.

It is 4:30 a.m.

I grind the coffee. The coffee comes from Café del Sol a cooperative that supports people in need. The grinder looks as if it might be a transformer in disguise; red metal, two feet tall with a huge mouth of a lid to receive the beans. It makes short work of the pound or two of coffee that I put in.

Once more I am at Uptown Bill’s Small Mall, about which my brother said, “You would be lost without that place wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah. I suppose. Or at least someplace like it,” was my reply.

I am grinding the coffee and doing a little clean up as payment for my parking space this morning. I would park near my apartment but the students are back at the University and there are no spaces. My off-street parking in the alley is filled by someone else’s car. Once again, the Mall is the place of easiest refuge.

I look around for another task. The water cooler is at the end of the table where I sit. The bottle is empty. Just a second while I change it. There. The bubbles rise to the top in a hypnotic pattern as the water fills the cooler.

Simple.

Help out a bit.

Grind coffee.

Watch bubbles.

Write.

Feel better.

Why is it such a challenge to remain focused on just helping out bit and then relaxing to enjoy the present moment?

As they say, if I knew the answer to that one I would write a book. Wait a moment. I did write a book. It didn’t have any answers for anyone but me, and that answer was simple – just be Dale. Do not take on any great causes. Do not feel that I have to fulfill anyone else’s desires for whom or what they expect me to be. Care and be kind to others but do not take on their pain and try to carry it as if it were my own. A tall order to be sure but one I must follow if I want to stay free of hospitals; if I want to be present enough to see a butterfly as it lands on my arm. Just now there are no butterflies. It is night outside. There is a fly under the neon. It lands on the table just outside my reach. Its wings reflect a prism of light when I look closely. It is enough. Did I rate my mood as 7 on a scale of 10? Make that a 7.5.

Broken Ones

September 10, 2009

Depakote 200 mg

Mood – 6 out of 10 (where 10 is equivalent to the Big Bang)

Tomorrow is 9/11. I remember what happened just before and after that date 8 years ago.

The urologist. “You have kidney cancer it must come out.”

The psychiatrist, “You have Major Depression, Bipolar Disorder, er…mental illness…er mood disorder.”

The employer, “You should go on long term disability.”

The insurer, “On your behalf, you must let us file for Social Security Disability Insurance.”

I still do not understand those times. They opened cracks in what I used to call a soul.

“What can I do with bipolar disorder?” Follow the doctor’s orders. But mental illness is an area that has little certainty. We can set a broken leg. We can put stints in arteries. We cannot cut or sew up the wounds of the mind that we label mental illness.

“What does long term disability mean?” I have a contract to receive payment, but don’t insurance companies decide to cancel benefits all the time? My trust of companies is pretty low based on my experiences with them. The phrase, “it’s just business” sends a chill to my core. I become fearful of losing the benefit.

“What does Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) mean?” It means that the insurer lowers their payments by the amount I am paid by SSDI. I become fearful of trying to get better and learn how to do job. If I do try to get better, if I do try to work again and go off of SSDI will the insurer become angry and find a way to cancel my long-term disability? If I don’t work again will I sink further into my illness like so many seem to do?

These are not unique questions. I am not alone. There are many of us. The broken ones, the ones that much of society does not want to look at too closely. I know. I was part of “successful” society once. I wore the suits. I flew first class. I made the deals. I looked with what I thought was great compassion on those less fortunate. Today, I wonder if my compassion was little more than condescending pity.

In my suit of the best Dormeuil money could buy I would think; “How sad are those poor souls. How sad they lack my talent, skill and enterprise. I suppose we must make allowances and give them something to live on, but we must be careful not to give them too much or we will destroy their motivation to improve themselves. We must make them want to improve their lot in life. We must motivate them to mend themselves.”

Now that I am bipolar and disabled my view is a bit different. I live in the world of broken ones, or at least those that are labeled as broken. We are the ones out of the mainstream. The ones that cannot (and yes sometimes will not) fit into the categories the world has given us. We sometimes spend countless hours hating ourselves and wondering if we should simply disappear and cease being a bother and source of pain. Each of us began life as a mother’s dream of having the perfect child, a bit of china so pure and rare that all the world would come to admire it and in their admiration stand in awe of the parents who created it. But it was not to be. For us, our mother’s dream of china turned into potshards, the broken bits left in the potter’s yard after the workers have gone home.

Yet even among the broken pottery there is beauty. Yesterday I spoke with Scott P., my oldest friend. I worried that I had upset him with my recent whining and rambling. But like every time when I call him, we soon were laughing as though no time had passed since we shared our radical days of the 70’s. His laugh and my response put a few shards back together that I had forgotten. I remembered that my cracks are of long standing. I have been a little bit “weird” from early on. As a result, I have a long history dealing with being cracked. I do well with it so long as I don’t forget to be loving and kind. And then the most important shard fell into place - with a friend weirdness is all right.

I pity the successful one I once was; the executive who often was afraid to take time for friends, especially those who could not directly further his business goals. Today he seems the broken one to me. He is the one whose life was segmented into pieces – work, play, family, friends, etc. He is the one that could do the most horrid things because each piece stood on its own and after all, “it’s only business”.

Since becoming broken, my life is much richer than before. This morning I met with Tom and watched as he ate waffles with the real maple syrup I brought to him from the Kalona coop. He told me about Dorothy and how it was going to be difficult to lose her. I spoke with Janet about her poetry and shared how I have learned to use writing to overcome darkness and despair; despair like that she feels when she hears the timer go off on the machine they have given her to dispense her medication. I listened to another friend speak of her longstanding loneliness and fears about the challenges of credit card debt. The dogs licked Tom’s plate clean of the few pieces of waffle he carefully leaves for them each morning. Behind the counter Tim served coffee. Through it all there was some pain, how could their not be? Yet, mostly there was simply a deep harmony as our laughter and warmth held the pieces together. This crazy glue, made of true compassion not pity for each other, allows we broken ones to make new pots from the broken china of our mother’s dreams. Many of our creations are odd and some are outright bizarre. This is okay with us. Broken or not we can be at peace and live life fully. In fact we have an advantage, we can relax and be ourselves, we no longer have to pretend that we are “normal”. In this state we are able to take whatever piece comes our way and piece it together higgledy-piggledy into our art.

I smile as I write this. Only yesterday I was sad that I would never be normal again. I was filled with pain about my illness and saw my life as a failure. Today I recall Scott’s words, “I’ve known you were nuts since the 70’s. I like you anyway. Did you think after all this time you were going to trick me into thinking you were sane or something?” We laughed until any strangeness between us faded into the warm fall air. Potshards need not remain broken. Friendship’s crazy glue can piece them back together stronger than ever before.

Kindness to Kindness

Fear and doubt. Fear and doubt. Oh, and add healthy doses of self-hatred and guilt. These emotions often dominate my life. There are days when the blackness they cast almost makes it impossible to move. Often the emotions have a face, the face of my mother as she sat for days on end in her housecoat watching the television, or the face of my brothers and father as they watched her illness and now mine – unable to talk openly about it. And yes, most especially my face in the mirror – a man whose sadness makes it look older than many who are his same age – a man who often begins his days writing drivel such as this. Even now, as I watch these words appear on the page the committee who live in my head shouts.

“Everyone else is fine. You simply are projecting your self-centered pain upon them.”

“What’s the point?”

“Why do you bother?”

“Stop this silliness at once. Cease bothering the world with your self-pity.”

“Sharing all your nonsense just brings others down and makes their day darker. How selfish of you.”

“Voicing your fears only makes them more real you know.”

The committee’s chatter is with me always. Even on the brightest of days I can feel them. They nestle in a dark corner of my brain in angry silence; waiting for the right moment to pounce on any sign of happiness or joy. I have spent years in church pews, 12-step rooms, psychiatric hospitals and with therapists trying to destroy the committee. Yet it remains. Some days, like today there is only one arrow left in my quiver, one last bolt to use in trying to silence the committee – it is the shaft of writing. Fuck the committee. Fuck each and every member. Let my words slay them for yet another day.

AND I share what I write. The committee finds this idea hilarious. It loves to pounce on the idea of sharing.

“You realize it is all just ego on your part don’t you?”

“Your grandiosity is showing.”

“You better spend more time editing and making sure it is the best you can possibly do before you share it.”

I share anyway. Damn the committee. I know of at least one or two people who say they like what I write and that they want to read more of it. Today that is enough. It will have to be. I feel as if writing honestly about what I experience in this moment, this very one, may be my only defense against the committee. Even if later I find my writing to be less than truthful or perfect it is the only thing I can think of to offer life at the moment. Trying to capture this tiny second of the eternal universe is the best I can manage just now. May it be enough for life. May it be enough to silence the committee. May it be done on a path of love and kindness.

The phone rings. It is a friend from Little Rock, Arkansas. Larry Atkinson. We have seen one another maybe a dozen times but have talked on the phone for hundreds of hours. He carries the ghost of addiction, as do I. We will talk until there is nothing left to talk about. Perhaps life meets kindness with kindness once again. I will act as if it is so.

August 31, 2009

The pouch from the mortuary is empty and my pocket is lighter. Not by much. A few grams maybe; the tiny bit of you that left me for the freedom of the Pacific. A few moments ago, Barry and I stood on the pier and watched as your ashes sparkled and then faded into the waves.

“Be free old buddy,” were the only words I could manage. You deserved something more eloquent; something to capture a bit more of the beauty, wonder and yes – suffering of your life. I was too numb to manage more than a few words. Hope you understand.

Today we start home to Iowa. You came home after all those years. We talked about why, often over the last few months. Your mother needed you, but it was more than that. Were you looking for the safety and comfort of childhood? Perhaps all of us do this as we grow older. Perhaps all of us wonder who will take care of us, love us and put us to bed. I know I do. There are times when the fear of being old and alone gnaws at me with sharp teeth in the night. I feel I am supposed to die like people in the movies die – peaceful, in bed, surrounded by adoring children and grandchildren. This did not happen for you. Your final companions were me – a friend of a year or two, a former fiancé and her husband. We were the ones who watched. Brenda was the one who cried and held your hand. Your son was far away in prison. Some will look at your deathbed scene and say it is God’s fair and just judgment for a life of sin – that if you had been a better person your death would have been more like the movie version. I am not one of those. I was there and watched as you adjusted from living a life high in the hills of West Hollywood to living in assisted housing in Iowa City. I saw you still struggling with drugs. But I also saw you help a young boy learn how to ride his bike. I listened as you shared hours of stories about your life. I heard nothing that would make me want to cause you suffering in your final hours. I heard nothing that would make me want to bring you pain. I heard the voice of a fellow human being.

As Barry and I stood on the pier watching the silvery web of your ashes, you gave me one final gift. Just as the final sparkle faded Barry said, “Dale, I love you for what you did today…”

Barry and I are closer friends because of you Steven. We bowled a game at the bowling alley in Pismo beach. We ate a bowl of the world’s second best clam chowder (the line at the home of the world’s best was too long). So today, like yesterday, I must say thank you Steven. Thank you for sharing a bit of your life with me. Thank you for letting me be your friend in the final days. Your death was not like a movie script. I doubt if my end will be like that either. But perhaps, just perhaps, if I’m not too much of an asshole, life will spare me a friend or two at the end. Maybe they will watch my ashes sail over the ocean. They might even bowl a few games in my honor. If they do, I hope they have the patience to wait in line for the world’s best clam chowder. The world’s second best clam chowder tasted suspiciously like Campbell’s.