AT LEAST WE DIDN'T DIE

Sometimes when you are not sure what the muse wants and it’s hard to know where to begin. I envy writers who have their stories mapped out from beginning to end and all they have to do is flesh out the ideas already organized. Ive never been good at that. What I get are ideas and feelings that pass through in the moment like a soaring bird’s shadow. When I get that invitation I have to run with it or let it go. That is when I try to imagine where it came from (the story) and where it wants me to go with it. Everything has its own story but the dots all connect, everything is interconnected. 

Today’s story has been compounded by unexpected, difficult circumstances and my part in it is to tread that narrow way between when and how to assist and staying out of the way. As one struggle gives way to another there are timely pauses to reflect and I don’t need a counselor to tell me, “You are too old to be doing this.” Then familiar quotes that never loses their way, never fall on deaf ears, they come back around. “Let us rise up and be thankful for if we didn’t learn a lot today at least we learned a little, and if we didn’t learn a little, at least we didn’t get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn’t die; so let us be thankful.” Then, like potato chips, one quote leads to another. Joseph Campbell cuts straight to the quick; “Participate joyfully in the sorrows of the world. We cannot cure the world of sorrows, but we can choose to live in joy. The Warrior’s approach is to say, ‘Yes’  to life: ‘Yea’ to it all.” 

For Jospeh Campbell the Warrior and the Hero (with a thousand faces) are effectively the same character, just at different stages. One is forward leaning while the other is more reflective. It works the same for everyone whether the path you follow takes you around the world or never goes beyond the garden gate. The Warrior has an insatiable appetite for adventure if you will. It’s about process much more than outcome. Even though we are supposed to move through stages we retain remnants of the former after all. Without them one’s backstory would read like a boiled cabbage recipe. The Buddhist-like quote is not from the Buddha himself but consistent with that eastern disposition and he would like it. I take comfort in the two together. 

Currently as a spectator-ally my part in the day’s trajectory is limited to patient understanding and moral support. Barbara Streisand recorded a song in the 1990’s titled, If I Could. It comes from a parent’s perspective about children who have moved on, beyond her reach. To resolve her own reservations she mouths the words; If I could, I would try to shield your innocence from time, but that part of life I gave you isn’t mine . . . It’s all she can do. It’s all I can do. 

I didn’t know this was where the muse was taking me but here we are. This growing old can be bittersweet and be thankful for the sweet part, at least we didn’t die. I am still curious and I still have hopes, mostly for loved ones but some yet for myself as well. I don’t have much faith in Faith but my own, personal little dot is connected to all the other dots and I owe them something. John Muir (famous naturalist) is credited with many similar versions of this quote: “Try to tug on anything at all and you find it is connected to everything else in the Universe.” Another version says; “. . . and the whole Universe tugs back.” I take comfort in Muir’s words too. Maybe the most important part of telling a story is knowing when to stop. 

SLIP SLIDING

Road trips are generally good, even when they are not but you do that and it seems to work. Paul Simon (singer) wrote a wonderful song nearly fifty years ago that simply keeps on keeping on; Slip Sliding Away. He drops little clues about living a deliberate life and how those plans slip away unfulfilled. I told anybody who would listen to me that song, that ’Life’ has a double edge, either you have it or it has you. When you weigh and measure the phrasing and melancholy, I got it. I remember the lines; “She said a good day ain’t got no rain. She said a bad day’s when I lie in bed and think about what might have been.” Then the mortal caveat leaves you wishing for something that doesn’t exist: You know the nearer your destination the more you’re slip sliding away. All I could ever do was accept, it is what it is and if I can’t slip and slide away then, might as well stay in bed and make believe. 

I am in Corpus Christi with time to kill. Sleeping on the road has a long backstory with me. Managing money has always been a priority, one I struggle with. For whatever reason, spending good money to be unconscious in a strange bed just never met my need. Being comfortable while asleep seemed a contradiction of logic. I’ve always been able to close eyes and drift off. Five minutes or five hours later I can get up and go. If I am exhausted then all I need is the seat back and something soft for my head. I have lots better use for my dollar-bills than sleeping through. If I can’t be present to enjoy it, it doesn’t count and if I am present I might as well be putting miles between where I was and where I want to be. 

But age is taking its toll on me and that easy-peasy fall-asleep trick is harder to pull off, and staying asleep requires limber shoulders, hips and flexibility I can only remember. Don’t give up on me, I still sleep in safe, warm, dry little slots along the way, any time of day. But I’ve come to depend on ‘Warm’. Old dogs still learn but things change and I'm not ready for some of the new tricks. The years (numbers) can be insulted and shunned but they do add up and I have too many to dismiss. Traveling in cold weather, to keep feet warm I need to get horizontal. That generally means motel, AirBnB or having an amigo with an extra bed strategically located along my route. Right now I am killing six days and nights in Corpus Christi, TX. I could stay in the truck cab at truck stops. Their showers work for old men in pickups at a fraction of the price for a room at Best Western. After an early a.m. shower and clean clothes, walking across the lot at a Flying J truck stop is hard to beat. By the time I drive for half an hour there simply is no difference. 

My reason for ‘Six days & nights in Corpus Christi is another story but come bed time nobody cares. My host is Mary Gonzales, an abuela - grandmother & teacher’s aide who put four kids through college and converted their space, (bedrooms) into AirBnB rooms. I love the neighborhood (barrio). The houses are all different types and colors with low chain link fences around small, well groomed yards. Several cars or trucks in every drive and you can hear neighbors calling after their kids or husbands or whom ever needs to get their behind home. The norm spoken is ‘Spanglish’ that comfortable blending of Español and English that even I can follow, usually. 

So here I am about as far from my home as this trip will allow. I wasn’t really ready to be blessed with more money than I have time but live long enough, stay healthy (that’s the recipe). So paying dollars for a warm bed instead of waking up with cold feet and an impatient bladder, a long walk from a bathroom; I’m glad for a good night anywhere. Good sleep just comes but good wake-ups stay with you for a while. I never thought much about it but dying with unspent money makes me look careless. But I know, it's not a choice. It'a about the journey and slip sliding is the only way I know. 

SUPER BOWL

  I don’t hear about it all that much now but there was a time when I played football and then I coached it. Last night was Super Bowl #57 and I did my game-day thing just like I do every game day. Still, stuff happens, things change, the world turns and people move on; or not. I keep track of who wins and loses and I like some teams more than others but I do not watch games. My football experience began with boys playing boy’s games, the joy of running after each other, like playing tag but you get to knock people down. I wanted to win but win or lose, I wanted to play. After an eight year interim with the army and the work force I found college and football again. Our coaches were educators and philosophers. They emphasized preparation. Practice does not make perfect; you play like you practice and anything less than perfect practice just reinforces mistakes and poor play. That was the message I got on the field. Then there was; the better you play the more you get to play and that was everybody’s goal. No matter the score, being on the field was better than sitting next to the water bucket at the end of the bench. I did get stronger and better but so did my teammates and my playing time was limited to late in games when we were winning. That worked out to my satisfaction as we won a lot, we were very good. But I didn’t have to be taught about being part of something bigger and better than anything I could do by myself. I understood that my primary job was helping our best players prepare for game day. 
After a 27 year coaching career the game itself was pretty much the same but the message had changed. Winning had become the only reason to play and coaches that failed there were let go. The message was “WIN” whatever it takes. The philosophy I had been so well schooled with no longer meant anything. Cheap talk comes easy when you have great players and the competition makes you look even better. My last years (3) were working for an old coach like me who I knew, went to the same college I did and still evoked the ‘perfect practice’ model. He went out of his way to develop average kids and give everyone a chance to contribute, to play; and we won a lot. 
I don’t watch football games any more. I can fast-forward through the highlights and see all I want in a few minutes. I will not do sour grapes over where the game has gone in my lifetime. I loved it for a long time but then you move on. I have long lived friends who survived that gauntlet and can’t get it out of their systems but I don’t dwell in that house anymore. 
My home town team won the Super Bowl last night. There is a sea wave of red, white and gold all over town today and I like it when they win. But I do not identify with wannabe heroes whose closets are full of franchise clothing and paint their bodies as if they make a difference in the score, as if the crowd noise wouldn’t be the same without them. Some things are best experienced vicariously but no matter how big your banner of how loud your band of groupies may be, it is not your game, it is a sad example of mistaken identity. It says something about make-believe inclusion that I don’t want to rub off on me. My life is pretty good as it is and I doubt if I start watching grown up men playing boy’s games for the money.