crdahlberg

Emerging Stones

Once a rock, now a stone — Transformation by Wes Dahlberg
— © 2024 Craig Dahlberg

Well past his 80th year, my father hopped along the rocks on the beach just out of reach of sloshing waves, searching for the next face peering from along the shore. Each rock he selected became his canvas. But his art would not hold the mundane image of a stylized tree or a vivid green frog painted to adorn a doorstop. Instead, he peered deeply into the contours and subtle colorations to unlock what, or who, was already there, waiting to be discovered.

“There! Can you see him? And look, over his shoulder, there’s his daughter embracing her puppy,” he would describe. And of course, we all said we did, even if we had no clue what image and story the blank rock actually contained.

To the last day I pushed my father’s wheelchair through the parking lot, he required me to stop to review the subtleties of granite stones in the outside walls of his assisted living residence to identify imaginary faces and scenes locked within the patterns of the stones, staring back at us. What were they saying to us? Can you hear them? Can you see them? Then, “Forward!” my father would have declared, his eye ever searching onward, outward, and inward to set free the next stone captive.

Just when does a rock become a stone? A rock lies unused in a quarry or unnoticed beside a road or pathway; a rock serves no particular intention or use. However, a rock becomes a stone when it is put to a purpose. The rock gives birth to a stone. We christen a stone when we ennoble it to possess a specific use. A rock, for example, converts into a stone when it becomes part of a stone wall to keep out intruders, or when a rock is re-purposed as cobblestone, transformed into a pathway for our use.

By the time of his passing at 106 years old on November 1 of 2023, my father had transformed hundreds of rocks into stones, releasing the faces of the captives held within them. The subtle detail that he added with his horsehair paintbrush—no cutting instruments allowed—defined and refined them, drawing the images out and giving them their first breath.

When he finally departed, Dad’s death removed my last bit of scaffolding to the former generation. He was the last survivor of my parents’ generation. Gone were his wife, her parents, his parents, his brother, his nephew, his in-law parents and brothers and sisters. All that was left is the next generation: my brother and myself. Like Dad’s stones, we now stood on the top shelf, placeholders for now, for our generation and the ones to come. That top tier is a windier place, unprotected now that Dad is gone. We feel less protected from the forces of nature that now seem colder and damper, with our face against the wind. It is for us, now, to repeat “Forward!”

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On a boring, routine night of tedious sheep-tending chores, a young shepherd played hacky sack with his sheep’s droppings. He checked for consistency and coloration as he bounced the dung off one foot to the other and back again. Discoloration or soft poop would indicate problems. Achingly monotonous, tending sheep provided plenty of opportunity to amuse himself and to contemplate his place in the world. His notions drifted in the air, along with the musty, fetid odors of his sheep. As the youngest and therefore the least in the family, he did not have the first pick of the chores. Hence, sheepherding was his lot. Could he, alone on this forlorn hilltop, be mindful? Would he tend this moment with no urgency, no purpose, or with both urgency and purpose? Where was his own “Forward” call within his menial service?

Caring for the sheep consumed his life. He considered his only significant moments were in transporting food supplies to the nearby battle lines. In stealth, he would deliver hardy supplies—grain, bread and cheese—to the unit on the front lines, then again return to the menial tasks, herding his bleating, smelly beasts. Today, at dawn’s break, he again loaded up the supplies, arriving to the sound of the clamor of battle. As usual, a vulgar dispute broke out among the front line ranks over today’s strategy. How to defend against the renewed threats of the enemy?

With opportunity arise both fear and courage. Fear announces an impending disastrous consequence—a wrong choice or a step too far. Courage responds—how? With the possible regret of having not tried, grappled, and succeeded.

“Forward!” came the sudden, unexpected voice of courage in the shepherd’s brain. It traveled to his hands, into his fingers, and toward his feet. Its sudden sound drove him to his knees, into the waters of a stream, where he quickly groped for the heavy, smoothed objects at the water’s edge. In a moment, he gathered the prizes from the bank and dropped them into his travel pouch. And in the same moment he lifted the pieces of granite from the stream, his brain fog cleared to reveal the purpose of the morning and of his life.

When does a rock become a stone?

A rock becomes a stone when that rock is put to a purpose. It becomes a stone the moment a young shepherd inserts the rock into his sling and lets it soar, fast and sure, splitting both the morning sky and, meeting its intended mark, a skull opened and split wide.

One Before Me, One Behind Me

“Ahead and behind wound the line of the hungry…”
—Morro Bay, California © 2023 Craig Dahlberg

My exterminator paraded the last fallen warrior of The Rat Wars through our bedroom, its limp body dangling from its long naked tail, head thoroughly flattened by the steel spring of the rat trap—a real ratastrophy. The pelt was surprisingly clean, a brown body with a white fur mask across the face. I wondered how large a garment a skilled taxidermist might have fashioned from all the deceased rats retrieved from my attic. Rat hides collected, preserved with salt and expertly sewn together—why not rat fur gloves or a rat fur scarf? A handsome pair of rat fur socks, perhaps?

When cornered or trapped, neither humans nor rats do very well. We all look for a way out. Like my unsuspecting rats, I had gradually backed into a trap of my own making. Reared in a conservative, rule-following family, I had learned well how to color between the lines. Armed with correct manners and a conformed instinct to please, by high school I was reliably prepared to enter a boys’ boarding school, far from home. Along with my eleven other classmates, we learned the standard high school subjects, but at an accelerated rate. During winter, we had but to step out of our dormitory and ski down the mountain, then take the funicular back up the mountain. We were boys then, turning into men, far away from the girls who were turning into women.

Returning stateside after attending the boarding school abroad, I enrolled in an affluent high school with a challenging and emotionally disruptive social scene. The ratio of automobile-owning teenagers to the high school teen population was nearly one-to-one. Girls draped themselves into the cockpits of Corvette convertibles piloted by their pimply-faced, steady boyfriends. Heavily modified Ford Mustangs snarled out of the student parking lot. I was an outsider. I crawled into the nearly-empty yellow school bus, staring out the window in consternation, ready to be transported to my silent home, punctuated perhaps by a family-centric TV show—Mitch Miller and his band, or Lawrence Welk’s drone to his orchestra, “And a one, and a two!” How conservative. How comfortable. How stifling.

It was a confusing, baffling time, made more so after plotting for six months to ask a girl out on my very first date. I was shot down with the most pedestrian of explanations: “I’m busy that night.” I backed so far into my rat hole that a Rat Hole Safety Inspector would have required the installation of a breathing ventilation tube.

And then—Lord have mercy—came college. With it would come the specter of more teenage wraiths mutating into young adults, with me looking on, locked away by fear, silence and envy.

Three times each day, at precise intervals, the college dormitories belched out their inhabitants, who joined the winding, rapidly-lengthening cafeteria line. I would wriggle myself uncomfortably into the line, managing my discomfort by staring at the blank tile-covered, creme-colored wall, silently calculating the total quantity of shiny ceramic tiles, as if on a divine mission.

Ahead and behind wound the line of hungry students, a serpentine row along the stairway running through me, then past me, up toward the top of the stairway. Young women with side-swept hair bobs wore pink, orange and citrus green mini-skirts. For the college-age men, it was mop-top hair, extended sideburns and wispy mustaches, paisley shirts and bell-bottom trousers. Teetering on the steps, I hugged the hand rail. Gradually, we came within sniffing range of the standard-fare shepherd’s pie as we rounded the corner to the cafeteria.

I was acrophobic, balancing on one step, fearful to look at the next person in line behind me. Nonetheless, I shot a glance toward her downward-facing head. Unexpectedly, she glanced up at me. I was galled. Good grief. What to do? It was too late to look away. “Hi,” I muttered, confounded that was all I could come up with. What was wrong with me?

That night, my churning stomach made little progress against the shepherd’s pie. I desperately needed a way out of my painful introversion and self-imposed social exile.

I concocted a Grand Scheme.

What do you do when folks within the smell of your breath smile at you, ask your name, and express genuine interest in your story? The answer is simple—probably you smile back at them, ask their name, and ask about their own story. In so doing, I would weaponize my Grand Scheme.

The next day, I again stood in the cafeteria line, one person before me, one person behind me. The same conflict burned—what to say? What to do? But this day, I had promised myself, things would be different. I again half-turned my head to the one student before me and the one student behind me. And this time, I heard myself exchanging names, and listening to their stories as we wound up the dining hall stairway.

And so the Grand Scheme began. I learned the names and stories of two students in each meal line, the one ahead and the one behind me in line, three meals each day. Like a fledgling the first time out of its nest, I discovered a bigger world, and my life gradually transformed from inward isolation to outward-focused engagement.

As with all great discoveries, I was ruined for the past; I could not go back. To this day, the Grand Scheme lives on. These many decades later, I still happily enjoy the effects of this single decision—to attend to the One Before Me, and to attend to the One Behind Me.

Snailville

Smallville is the fictional earthly home of Krypton-born Superman. Snailville, however, has nothing to do with the superhero. Instead, it is the earthly home of racing snails, the shelled gastropods that we children set about to compete against one another. Trembling from nerves, we lined up our racing snails at the starting gate like microcars spoiling for a fight.

A snail racetrack should be sloped at a steep angle to encourage the participants to travel roughly in a similar direction. On a good day, given no head wind, a minimum delay for retracting eyeball stalks, and the absence of menacing predators, a snail’s pace reaches three feet per hour. So the finish line should be chalked at a reasonable distance, that is to say, fewer than 12 inches from the starting gate.

To improve our racing odds, each of us kids owned several sizable snails, the sort that is large enough, if given unfortunate circumstances, to produce a loud crunch beneath a careless footstep in a garden, the resulting squishified mess to be laboriously peeled away and cleaned up with stick and leaves.

Ours were handsome snails. Scrubbed of habitat soil, their shells gleamed a lustrous brown and tan. Admittedly, there is little to differentiate one attractive snail from another. Lacking distinguishing elements such as eyebrows, body hair, facial expression, nose, or body tattoos, it can be difficult for an untrained eye to tell them apart. The dexterity of the single foot or the patterns on the shell may be the few indicators of snail identity. Though snails doubtless can tell one another apart, for our purposes it was useful to easily recognize and identify them.

Some might have casually nicknamed them “Goblin Beak,” or “Google Eyes.” We, however, never considered disrespecting them. Instead, because of our devotion for them and the limited space on each shell, we distinguished each racing snail shell with painstakingly painted numbers. Incidentally, a 2018 issue of the Journal of Molluscan Studies declared the metallic silver and gold ink of Pilot brand pens to be the preferred shell-marking identifier. This discovery arrived far too late for our 1958 snail competitions, so I simply painted number “6” upon my favorite snail in acrylic.

When we lined them up atop the bomb shelter, their shells seemed to serve as protective helmets as they spoiled for the start of the 10-inch long snail-paced sprint.

Did I say, “bomb shelter”? Merely 13 years after the end of World War II, a bomb shelter in Cologne, Germany, where we lived, provided the perfect hardened concrete snail race track. The cement slope with padlocked rusted steel door at one end was the entrance to the sepulcher-like shelter, which was buried deep underground. I speculated what bizarre secrets the long-shackled bomb shelter might hold. Might there be decaying wooden tables and chairs and mildewed bedding awaiting those fleeing a feared Allied bombing run? Perhaps there were stashes of hastily discarded Nazi paraphernalia or mold-growing furry children’s toys or faded, unposted love letters. Worse, could it be a ghastly tomb containing skeletal remains, victims of the tyrannical German Reich?

Our snails were mere blisters atop the concrete racetrack, the entrance to the bomb shelter. I would coax, “Go, Number 6!” but my exhortations did little to hasten the slow unraveling of foot from shell and erection of eyes perched like celery seeds atop miniature bendable celery stalks. I had long learned that eye-poking, entertaining as it was, only slowed a snail’s glacial forward pace.

We protected and secreted our prized snails in glass jars, thoughtfully converted into homey snail residences with random leaves, twigs, and shallow water to provide both nourishment and enough humidity to promote healthy gastropod hygiene. Still, we were not perfect snail handlers. We discovered that warm sunny days could prove lethal for snails in glass jars. The magnified sun rays could reduce our racing snail population to empty shells at the bottom of the jar, floating atop brownish tan ooze, liquified snail bodies reduced to soup.

There was always the danger of intruders. More than once, we discovered our best shell-numbered racing snails murdered, their glass jar residences smashed, along with their shells, amid tiny puddles of snail entrails. We would quickly discover that the neighborhood raider kids had struck.

The starting flag dropped, and the shell-helmeted racers commenced their competition atop the bomb shelter racetrack. I coaxed Number 6 onward, yelling into his earless head, hoping for a stiff forward-propelling thump upon his shell from a falling acorn. He tried hard not to disappoint, slime faithfully administered beneath his foot, which was aimed down the steeply sloped cement raceway. It took forbearance and an adherence to the rules to resist dragging a distracted and wandering snail racer half an inch forward; perched upon this bomb shelter, we learned patience—boatloads of patience.

Had Jesus had been born in Germany, and had this concrete bomb shelter been His temporary tomb before His escape from death on that history-bending day, I suspect He would have paused on his way past the rusted, padlocked door. Snailville would have caught his gaze on His way up and out of that black sepulcher—the racetrack, snail Number 6, and us, patiently waiting—and He, just the sort of guest we could only have hoped for.

Toilet Training

The 17-foot long camping trailer we tow behind us should hardly be called a “mobile home.” It’s more of a miniature “mobile room,” with part of it sectioned off, creating the world’s smallest bathroom on wheels. Ironically, there is no “bath” in the bathroom. There is a shower, a hand-held portable wand connected to a length of plastic hose. This miniature room is a toilet hovel, a place to do your business, then pray you can quickly unlock the door to escape.

Heaven help the unsuspecting first-time shower victim, unfamiliar with the concept of sitting, backside exposed of course, atop a toilet seat that is still in the down position, reminding you that you’re there to shower—and nothing else at the moment. First, without a modicum of propriety, you remove every stitch of clothing because, well, you’re going to shower, of course. Now, where do you put the dirty clothing, and where do you put the newly unpacked and clean clothing? One choice is to strip naked just outside the teeny bathroom, a good choice for maneuverability, but not so great if curious visitors drop by, peeking inside just after you drop your skivvies. (“Oh, I just love how cute this little trailer is!” they will coo.) Another option is to cram yourself into the microscopic toilet/shower with your contortionist handbook outlining the moves required to disrobe, toss your clothes out the door, and then pretzel yourself into painful showering positions. Reverse this time-consuming and torturous process to dress in your clean, humidity-soaked clothes. Oh, wait! Just where are my clean clothes!?

Our trailer is so small that it disappears behind any motor home parked near it. “Weren’t we on this row?” I’ll ask my wife after our evening walk. “Was it Honeydew Lane, or was it Gumball Alley?” We always eventually find our fiberglass aquarium-sized rolling cabin. “Oh, that’s right! We must be next to that bus christened Goliath.” It drips gaudy Christmas lights, declaring, “We’re roughing it cooler than you are!” And there is the dog, displayed like window dressing—those omnipresent chihuahua mixes eternally guarding the dashboard of a Class A motor home, a rabid omnivore ready to tear the arm off any unsuspecting camper wandering inadvisedly across the white chalk line demarkation between hallowed camping turf, those microscopic chihuahua teeth engineered to bisect a slice of limp salami.

Our previous tiny 16-foot camper had two dining tables, one at each end. They could each be converted into beds. One side was a slightly tight fit for two, but sleeping head to toe in sleeping bags was a doable adaptation. With these arrangements, we could take another couple camping with us. Another couple, that is, whom we might know quite well and was not shy about propriety. The true test of friendship was a fold-up porta-potty, shared among the four. At night, especially considering an extended nighttime jaunt to the camp bathroom, and given sufficient space between campsites, I would place the porta-potty just outside the camper door, semi-concealed.

One night, nature called. I crawled silently out of my sleeping bag, a ghost fashionably attired in plaid sleeping pants. I carefully pulled the camper door shut behind me, gently turning the handle to prevent it from clicking like a midnight gunshot. I tiptoed to the porta-pottie, lifted the lid and paused. What next? Delivering while standing would amplify the ensuing splash of a mountain waterfall, loud enough to wake my companions. Instead, I knelt down before the toilet as if doing homage from a church pew. Halfway through, I froze. Behind me, the unexpected popping of twigs and of swishing leaves announced a visitor. Were it a deer or even a coyote, I could have struck out with my free fist. It was something far worse. Unknown to me, our female camping companion had preceeded me out of the camper and was returning from the campground restroom. Now we both encountered one another, each earnestly attending to our own mission, one of us having graciously completed her bathroom duties while the other, ill-timed, still knelt, mid-stream.

It took her a moment to figure out what was going on, seeing me kneeling before a toilet with the lid up, plaid sleeping pants reflecting the moonlight. She gave out a sudden weird sound, a strange horrified half-giggle, half-choke, the kind of sound Minnie Mouse might make, trying to cough up throat phlegm. My back was to her, so over my shoulder, I cheerfully blurted, “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I looked like a giant, half-full teapot emptying its contents, my free hand fashionably placed upon my hip, elbow splayed outward, my arm forming a large teapot handle.

We both froze. The only sound was a stream, then a rivulet, then a slow trickle from within the plastic porta-pottie. Panicked, I dissected the entire Websters Dictionary in my head, searching for the right words to say, but came up empty.

Have you ever, at the end of the day, discovered your zipper down? And then you realize it has been that way since before lunchtime, the last time you used the bathroom? How many hours, and people, have passed by since then? And then you re-create various sitting postures and walking positions you’ve performed throughout the day to see just how awful it might have been? It was worse than that.

I crawled into bed, burying my head into my sleeping bag. The next morning, at breakfast, my wife inquired, “How did you sleep last night?” She and the female traveling companion who stumbled across me during the night were already suffering sore ribs inflicted by mirth and hilarity. After they recovered, my wife disclosed, “I was awake, and I knew that both of you were out of the camper at the same time for the same purpose. I could hear you using the porta-potty, so I was just waiting for the meetup!”

Getting Rid of Pets

I have always loved my pets, whether dogs, guinea pigs, my boa constrictor named Boaz, two lizards named Liz and Ard, or the zebra finches who suffered their simultaneous dramatic demise, feet pointing skyward in the bottom of their cage after choking on sunflower seeds. Yes, though cleaning cages can grow wearisome, I never thought of “doing in my pets” because of it. No way.

That is, until today—because today I received this notice from my extermination contractor: “Getting rid of pets just got easier.”

Imagine that! My exterminator, who rids our premises of cockroaches, rats, ants, and gophers, now has a side hustle: eliminating unwanted pets! No doubt he’s using the agony-inflicting chemicals already pre-loaded onto his truck! I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read the notice. What a brilliant, demented scheme! A one-stop shop to eliminate all annoying vermin and all pets!

I was infuriated and determined to whistleblow these clowns. I hastily typed in a Google search for the phone numbers of ASPCA, PETA and Petco. I was seething with a holy, self-righteous sort of seething.

As my computer hunted for the numbers, I fumed (not, “fumigated”) as I read the exterminator company’s promotional blurb one more time: “Getting red of pests just got easier.”

Oh—PESTS, not PETS! Whoop-sie. My mis-read. My bad.

As my blood pressure gradually receded, it gave me time to think. I was relieved. Good! I still get to annihilate cockroaches, yet keep my precious pets!

And I wondered about my pets.

As it turns out, I have a lot of “pets” beyond the furry and scaly variety. In fact, I possess a virtual menagerie in my garage. There are the soft-back and hardback books undisturbed for decades, their yellow rat-pee stained pages buried beneath compound layers of gathered dust. Beside them lie the carcasses of ancient iPhones, rest in peace. Lurking in the shadows, buried in random plastic containers, lie thousands of orphaned screws, bolts, nails, and washers. All my pets.

This Pet Became a Pest. A Scary One.

I had other pets that did not inhabit my garage. It started out as a pet, small and cute and respectable, but it eventually outgrew its own sort of cage, which was a record player case. In 1936, Sergei Prokofiev composed “Peter and the Wolf” for kids just like me. When I was in first grade, I had access to my parents’ record player and that record. I loved that record and that player. At first.

When I placed the armature of that record player onto the black spinning plastic, magic happened. Out jumped every character in the story, each portrayed by a different instrument—a bassoon for the grandfather, kettle drums for the hunters, nasty french horns for the nasty wolf, a flute for the freaked-out-frightened bird, and an oboe for the duck who was eaten alive by the wolf. Alas, heroic Peter, represented by a calming stringed section, arrived on the scene too late to allay my panic-mottled pink cheeks.

When the climactic, freak-me-out scary music let forth, I knew that the characters were alive beneath my dark and dusty bed. The wolf! The hunter! The mangled duck! The frightened bird! Mercy! Quick—I must get on top of the bed until the massacre was over!

My pets—the record and record player—obviously went very wrong. The story had grown too real, and the record player became a huge pest of frightening proportion. Eventually, I didn’t even want to play the thing. A pest, perhaps, and even more than that. My pet became a pest and a terror.

This Pest Became a Pet. A Lovely One.

Two of my grandchildren own a Rattus, the fancy genus name for a rat. I have unwittingly owned several of these creatures myself. They lived in our attic. After several seasons enduring scratching and gnawing sounds above my bed, and two episodes of profound stench from decaying corpses of deceased rodents, I brought in the professional with the big guns—er, rat traps.

“No need for cheese,” explained the exterminator. “These curious critters explore anything new, including a rat trap, and then, smack! The bar from the trap snaps shut and crushes any body part in its way.” He was right. In short order, I could have displayed a respectable Rattus pelt exhibit.

My granddaughter, June, owned a pet rat, Reepicheep, who was different. Reepicheep had crossed beyond the boundary of “pest-hood,” elevated to the honor of “pet-hood.” June knew just the right places to scratch him. He rested trustingly around her neck, a reciprocal bond of true friendship whenever June liberated him from his cage.

Pets Become Pets; Pests Become Pets

Perhaps I have this “pet” label and “pest” label hopelessly backward. Maybe I’ve been calling my “pets” my “pests.” And maybe I’ve been calling my “pests” my “pets.”

My pests are like this: For a long time, I’ve called life’s troubles, my “pests.” But later, looking back, I think, “I grew a lot. I learned a lot. I changed a lot. Huh!” Sort of like a friend helps you grow, in weird ways. The dictionary definition of “Trouble” is: “Trouble,” which is something that is just no good, and it hurts. But sometimes, in a weird way, trouble is good for me. And therefore my pests, my former troubles, have become my pets, the things I have come to value.

And my pets are like this: For a long time, I’ve called the warm and fuzzy and cuddly things in life, my “pets.” You know, the sorts of things that make me feel comfortable. And time-wasting. And draining. And shallow. And aimless.

You know, those kinds of pets.

You know, those kinds of pests.

Mind the Gap

The street troubadour resurrected familiar songs of bygone days. He lobbed his songs to anyone who would stop long enough to lend an ear and hopefully send a tip his way. As I listened, his melodies floated across the gap of the long-abandoned trolly tracks to his audience, a solitary street person, his music bridging the gap between them.

The British have a delightful cautionary expression, “Mind the Gap!” It reminds passengers to watch out for the space between commuter train doors and the station platform. Pay attention! Put your brain into it! Not doing do so could alter—or end—your life! So, pay attention to the space around you!

Our musician friend Minded this train track Gap. His music created a bridge across the space, the Gap between him and his vagabond neighbor.

There are many “Gaps to be Minded” that appear everywhere in each of our lives. How well do we manage to “Mind the Gap”?

Fishermen Mind the Gap between the stream banks. Investors Mind the Gap between deposits and withdrawals. Students Mind the Gap between their efforts and their grades.

Here’s a bit of a strange Gap: dogs and their owners. Dog lovers must attest, at least occasionally, to cradle their faithful canine friend’s muzzle in hand, stroke her fuzzy head, peer deeply, deeply into her eyes and wonder, “I love her. Does she think about me, love me? Are our brains synchronized in some sort of Gap-Bridging brain-bond? Is she starting to think like I think? To desire what I desire? Can the two of us bridge the gap between human and animal understanding? Yes! She “gets” me! But then, suddenly, she breaks free from my eye-stare and my head-scratching grasp, yielding to baser doggy instincts, licking herself in all of “those” places, and I realize that, well—all my imagined meditations of human-to-animal societal breakthrough were just that—imagined. Minding the Gap between human and animal will wait for a more practiced Gap-Minder.

There are other more significant reasons to “Mind the Gap.” Children try to figure their parents out. Parents try to figure their children out. Cross-generations have a difficult time of it! How to cross over those blasted Gaps!

What about the friends we value so highly—yet with whom we can easily get askew? Gaps can appear even in these closest of friendships. How do we Mind these Gaps?

And now, the risky one—Minding the Gap with a spouse. There appears to be an unmistakeable “Je ne sais quoi” difference between a man and a woman—a distinct difference in perception, evaluation, activity and verbal skills. These distinctive traits are delightful and invigorating at times, confusing and frustrating at other times. Early on, with infatuation in full bloom, this Gap is small, seemingly insignificant, but if “Unminded,” the Gap can grow with the years, until the Gap is challenging to cross over. Eventually, quarreling, disrespect and indifference can find a home in this Gap, leading to who-knows-what outcomes. Counselors of various stripes may be employed to help us Mind these Gaps and Mend these Gaps.

Minding the biggest Gap of all is, in fact, the one that we might try to dance around. It’s not a Gap like the distance to the moon, or to the sun, or to a distant galaxy. Even talking into my dog’s brain is a piece of cake—or a piece of doggie treat—in comparison to this Gap.

I refer to the Mankind/God Gap. This is an oil-and-water thing. Stir them as we might, this Mankind and God Gap never really mix. We’re not God. He’s not us. What to do?

There’s a weird way forward, and it’s a big mystery at that. To bridge this Gap, it turns out that Moses had a sort of chatbox to God, like a computer creates an interface, an accessibility. Moses’ chatbox was a means of entry into God’s thoughts and language. Imagine that. Able to hear directly from the Almighty.

Moses’ chatbox wasn’t virtual; it was real, happening in real time. The Moses chatbox thing worked like this. Moses would go into the Tabernacle, a place where he would tune in to, and listen to God. We are told that in that place, in that particular space, something spectacular happened: “Between the two cherubim—the place of atonement. The Lord spoke to him there.”¹

A pretty amazing event. Truly amazing.

Sometimes when I’m at home alone, I’ll look down the driveway to be sure there’s really no one else around. Then I’ll enter the house and turn up my favorite music really, really loud, until the walls vibrate. I suppose that’s what it must have been like for Moses, Minding the Gap, listening, in that special place. In that space, the Voice between the cherubim must have really flapped the walls of that Tabernacle tent.

I would love to have heard it.

I wonder if that Voice could happen again. Perhaps turn down that volume a bit, and then a bit more, until the music fades away. And then, listen. Just listen and Mind the Gap.

¹ Numbers 7:89

Love Poetry

The saxophonist lifted the instrument to his lips, testing the valves and mouthpiece. A ragged chirp signaled that his breath had indeed found its way through. The musician took two abrupt steps to his right and poked his finger onto a keypad. An audio track came alive, pushing his humble audio speaker to its full, if meager, capacity. He rotated two steps leftward, and he was off, saxophoning the melody line along with his pre-recorded ensemble bandmates.

Considering the setting, a pre-Thanksgiving Day banquet at an assisted living facility where my father lives, his performance was an adequate, perhaps admirable rendition, even when he switched over to his clarinet. It evoked memories of my father-in-law, Jack, who had played clarinet in a jazz band; I imagined his full head of dark hair, boyish grin and vigorous tap-tapping of shoe upon the dance floor.

Perhaps our friend, the current saxophonist, should have stuck with his micro-woodwind band and accompanying recorded track instead of attempting to croon. His vocalization gift was modest indeed; his singing voice wandered far afield. He plastered notes randomly, mercilessly splattering them all over the musical scale. Up, down, sideways, front-ways, back-ways in fits, the notes fell. Meanwhile, the accompanying pre-recorded track galloped happily away on its own, untethered from his vocalizations.

Little did his captive audience care. A frail woman in a wheelchair clapped and cheered along with the others in the modest audience, reliving each half-century old song the musician could muster. Another woman’s plaid red dress proclaimed “Snuggle” in bold white script, topped with a gold necklace. Below her chestnut-brown dyed hair, her deeply-lined face drew into a grin. After all, these were their songs, the songs they danced to before arthritis, before dementia, and before taking up residence in this assisted-living home. Their days of dancing may have been behind them, but the music liberated the melodies deep within. Their souls were set loose.

Besides the music, not everything else progressed smoothly at the retirement home Thanksgiving party. While my wife and I sat at our assigned table with my father in his wheelchair, the elderly gentlemen seated at the four-top next to us struggled to hear one another. Outbursts of exasperated attempts at dialogue succumbed to long rounds of silence. When the man nearest me attempted to pull his wheelchair up to the table, an unfortunate imbalance of plate and food ensued. There was a moist ku-thump as his full plate of turkey, brownish dressing, pale tan gravy, contrasting ruby-red cranberry sauce, and a dollop of pale-white mashed potatoes catapulted off the table and onto his lap. No one else even noticed before he pushed the contents from his thighs and onto the floor.

Nope. No one noticed, and no one cared. It’s the behavioral norm here, a beautiful norm. The wayward musical renditions could have shut down a cheap bar. But not here. Food spills onto trousers and carpet—who cared? No one cared. Survivorship builds callouses against the irritants that take down weaker folks.

None of that stuff really mattered. None of it.

Ah, there! Can you see them, the couple sitting at the next table, just beyond the heads of my father and my wife? That’s what really matters.

It was there I watched a drama unfold. One of the guests at this special Thanksgiving table was a tall, handsome, slender man with a shock of glowing white hair so thick it would choke a comb. I had noticed him earlier in the evening. He was the sort of man who, in the days before such promotions were banned, might have posed as the Marlboro man in a cigarette commercial. He carried himself casually, easily chatting with residents around the dining room, putting them at ease.

Beside him at the table, unable to speak and immoveable except for her head, sat his wife. A crimson blouse, tucked neatly into her wheelchair cushion, peeked from beneath a chic black sweater. Spoonful after spoonful, forkful after forkful, her visiting husband patiently raised her Thanksgiving dinner to her lips, pausing from this priority to stroke her hand and occasionally chat with the other table guests. Then he would turn again to his wife to feed her, and each time he did, a grin from a much-younger version of himself took over his face, reviving the same smile that possessed him the first time they met, decades ago.

It was poetry. Each serving he offered her was a new line of a love poem.

Eventually, the meal concluded, and the white-haired man disappeared, pushing his wife’s wheelchair to her room. When he re-emerged to descend the steps to his car in the parking lot, I quickly followed him outside into the brisk night air. I touched his arm, and surprised, he turned toward me.

“Sir,” I haltingly began, uncertain how to express my admiration for the love poetry he had displayed for his wife, “I’ve been watching you during the entire Thanksgiving meal. I watched every bite of food you served your wife. I watched you stroke her hand and talk gently to her, even when she could not respond back to you. I wanted to tell you I saw all that, and it deeply affected me. Thank you for showing me…” What I said immediately felt put on, too weirdly magnanimous, clumsy, and I wanted a second chance to say it better.

“We’ve been together for 53 years,” he responded. “She’s taken care of me during all those years. And now it’s my time, my opportunity, to take care of her.”

It was dark outside. He couldn’t see my eyes moisten as he reached to shake my hand. I wandered back into the dining room, knees weaker, but a stronger person.

To the Dump

Each week, a wagonload of garbage arrived at our house situated on the bank of the Rhine River. The wagon, replete with accompanying noxious odors, drew flies like a Disney theme park woos visitors. It was gross stuff, in this wagon. Just imagine your community’s weekly trash and rotting garbage all piled into one nasty, stinking, portable pile on parade—broken furniture, discarded clothing, drained motor oil, bits of string and nails and mangled wood, and a generous anointing of rotting food scraps, the passion of the buzzing flies.

An elderly woman in a tattered 1950’s-era patterned, heavily stained dress perched squarely inside the wagon, straddling the discarded garbage and trash. She wore leather boots and a threadbare baggy wool coat over a shabby sweater. A ragged scarf protected her head from the flies.

Her elderly husband’s mouth and cheeks animated his walrus mustache as he huffed deep breaths, stretching down to hug the next mound of trash to his chest. He heaved it up into the arms of his wife, awaiting the load from within the wagon. She searched for salvageable discards as he reached for the next armload of trash.

Meanwhile, their obedient horse, covered with burlap to guard it against the trash and the flies, awaited their command to move the wagon forward to the next house.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

During Christmas in Germany in the late 1950’s, we gifted our garbage man and his wife a small monetary offering, which they eagerly accepted, along with the other modest gifts of cookies, beer and schnapps from other neighbors. But that was small payback for the service they rendered us, unthanked, week upon week, offloading our stinking refuse into their garbage trailer.

At bedtime after I am asleep, their horse-drawn wagon still enters my dreams. I see that rickety-rickety garbage wagon. I hear the clomp-clomp of the hooves, and the gentle voice of the garbage man reining his horse to a stop at our driveway. He bends low to pick up and deposit my discards into the arms of his wife, atop the wagon. I see him glance at me as if to ask, “Is there any more?”

There’s always more. Scientists tell us that during our sleep state, our brains go through a cleaning cycle, during which the worn-out, damaged tissues in our brain are removed, like so much trash and garbage. The glymphatic system eliminates potentially toxic waste products from our brain, protecting us from disorders, including, very probably, Alzheimer’s Disease.

In my dream-state, this is the stuff being gathered for the garbage man. The exhausted brain cells that have done their job need to be replaced and refreshed. That’s not all. Along with those cells should go the day’s unredeemed endeavors—the worn and weary misguided thoughts, the ill-advised priorities and self-protecting reserve—they also deserve the dump.

Unfortunately, something in me wants to steel against that brain-cleansing process. Instead of yielding my wayward ways and misguided thoughts to the garbage dump, I want to hang on to the refuse of the day. Go ahead, garbage man, move on to the next house, to the next brain! That’s silly, of course. It’s even stupid. Why would I choose to hang onto trash? To hang on to distress? To anger? To being overlooked and ignored? To pride and self-importance?

And so lingers my ancient German garbage-master, peering into my brain, into my dream-state. “Do you vant to keep zat?” he inquires in his Prussian accent, suggesting he has more room on his wagon for anything I want to offload. “Do you vant to keep your broken hopes? Your aches? Your trouble? I can take zem!”

Oh, good grief. Don’t make me choose. I know what I want to do. But can I really let him take all that to the dump to be just—gone? That familiar trash is what I know the best; it has become part of me.

My patient trash man makes one final appeal; he awaits my decision. “Any more?” the mustache twitches. He reaches out to me one more time. I ponder whether there might indeed be more.

And then…I decide. It’s done.

He stoops down to gather my garbage one final time. He makes the day’s perfect pitch. His wife makes the catch.

Score!

The Weight of Measures

In September, my father turned 105. Measured by climactic world conflicts, he has lived through World War I, World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Persian Gulf War, the Invasion of Afghanistan, and the interventions in Syria and Iraq.

My father now has what I call Goldilocks Syndrome. That is, he measures the comfort of his bed in his assisted living facility—too hard, too soft, just right—and he regularly informs me. He also estimates the time and energy required for his next journey to the toilet. He measures the effect of his artwork. As an artist, he unwisely hoists himself from chair to walker to add a dabble of point to “improve” the appearance a decades-old painting, one of many of his painted companions displayed in his modest one-room apartment.

There are, of course, many ways to measure. A doctor may measure medical breakthroughs. An evangelist might count the number of souls saved. An artist could count the works sold over time. An entrepreneur might tally the balance sheet. A rancher would count the heads of cattle and the cost of feed.

Several times each day, we measure the food we eat, assessing and judging the flavors. Practiced chefs create delights to make our tongues tingle and jaws ache with pleasure. They have measured and mastered the effect of sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory, bringing flavor to the fore like an orchestra conductor, a bit more of this, now more of that, in sublime harmony.

Over the past several years, I have measured the width and depth of my family. My self-appointed task has been to preserve our family’s photo history. Dusty, creaky albums, long-sealed boxes of photographic prints and slides all find their way onto the bed of my digital scanner. I am creating a digital melting pot, joining the lives of dozens of disparate relatives into some sort of meaningful pattern of relationships, organizing a life by life, year over year brew of wild flavors.

All lives contain a genetic, geographical and circumstantial whirl. It’s impossible to measure who and what has brought which flavor to the mix. We are in the middle of it all, adults emerging from childhood, then leaning forward into the older characters we become. In our own family’s picture book, we can look bewildered, trying to measure who we are and who we will become.

By any measure, life can be untidy, messy, and difficult to understand. How, then, might we measure the progress of our own life journey?

There are the ever-favorite ways we measure ourselves and mark our progress: improve looks, lose weight, exercise more, the familiar makings of New Years resolutions.

If we dig a bit deeper, where it’s uncomfortable, we unearth some real dandies.

Help me out here. Does the measure of our self-sacrifice toward family members fall a bit short? Hmmm. Yes, guilty.

What about becoming more sincere and generous friends—how do we measure up? I again raise my own hand.

Oh, yes, and what about keeping that inner peace, joy, humility when promotion or recognition or other good stuff passes us by? No angst, please. But I LIKE to be promoted and recognized and have good stuff. Don’t you?

Am I the only one with those struggles?

Maybe our most important weight of measure is this: within a shape-shifting world, how well do we adopt, maintain, or adapt our own life-guiding values?

Autism Speaks

There’s a catchy autism awareness bumper sticker I see around town; maybe you’ve seen it, too. It says, “Autism Speaks.”

It’s a catchy phrase because I’ve experienced that frustrating non-verbal characteristic of autism. I’ve never had a conversation with my 10-year-old grandson who has autism. The non-conversation is not because we’re never in the same room, and it’s not because we don’t love each other. It’s because of autism. As a youngster, Levi enjoyed the monosyllabic language any typical two-year old utters. In the garden, his hair scrambled and sticking out as if electrified, he would point and proudly call out, “Bird! Bird!” just like his father had at that age, many years before. Stumbling forward, eyes wide, he would seek out another bird to practice his language on. Other words emerged, appearing just as his small-person personality was beginning to bud and to bloom.

But then, gradually, like a weighted blanket drawn over part of his brain, his communication gradually quieted, then nestled into numbness. Slowly as the tide retreats, the silence gathered, and eventually, without fanfare, Levi just stopped speaking. Mysteriously, something in his brain stopped the typical synchronization with the fresh-blossoming world around him, and the silence moved in.

Autism is a strange thief, picking and choosing different skills to manipulate in different brains. The boy who lives with his mother two doors down the street suffers from a kind of autism with no “Off” switch. Their house is a museum display of a mind that cannot turn off, autistic developmental history scrawled onto ruined walls with crayons and magic markers. His is a brain possessing a limitless mania to disassemble pieces of electronics that were previously functional, and an unending requirement to express language like an open faucet with a broken valve. Or, more accurately, controlling his need to communicate is like trying to turn back Niagara Falls.

Contrast him again with our Levi, absent of the ability to generate any conversation at all. When energetically prompted, yes, he can repeat words, but they hold little meaning for him. They are learned behaviors, empty containers to comply with one-word instructions of those around him. Birds on the wing no longer speak to his soul.

Yet Levi is happy. He expresses gratefulness through body language. He has learned to hug! He rolls upon our bed, over and over, enjoying the exquisite softness of the bed covers. When he takes a shower, there is no stream too strong or too long to satisfy his love for water. And he laughs, oh, can he laugh, great belly laughs that contaminate a room with joy.

Is his autism at times discouraging? Yes. Hopeless? No.

Many years ago, when Team Jesus rolled into town, it was like nothing else anyone had ever witnessed.* A team of modern-day medical experts could not have done better. It was not really a three-ring healing circus. It was a One-Man show, with Jesus in the center ring, the other rings empty save for those needing his healing service. As the gospel song testifies, “Jesus on the mainline (—in this case, the center ring—) tell him what you want.”

The lame? Zap! Done. Walking again.

The blind? Biff! No problem. Vision restored.

Crippled folks? Boom! All those in attendance leave this meeting under their own power.

Those who couldn’t speak? Hurrah! Words given, conversation gained.

Wait a minute…”those who couldn’t speak”? That’s autism! Jesus recovered speech for the autistic? But back in the day, there was no such disease diagnosed as “autism.” Yet it happened.

No one knows exactly how autism works, where it comes from, or what triggers it. But I understand autism just a bit because I confess that I, too, have “it,” autism, that is.

I have the kind of autism that robs that part of my brain of certain kinds of speech. It’s the autism-like cloaked part of my brain that takes kindness for granted and does not show enough gratitude to the grocery clerk or the waiter or the neighbor. It’s the part of my brain that does not say, “I love you,” to those dearest to me. It’s the part of my brain that does not thank for my health, for my bank account, for this day, for the sun. And yes, it’s the part of my brain and my soul that expresses little gratitude for the song and the flight of the bird, bird, bird.

Indeed, autism is a spectrum, with great variation of effect. And a great variation of lessons to be learned.

So there’s hope for us all, wherever on the spectrum because, well, we have got to believe, we cannot forget—we must say it aloud—that all things are yet possible.

For surely, Autism Can Speak and Does Speak to us all.

*Matthew 15:29–39