At a casual restaurant in Ojai, California tonight, a doting grandfather missed not a moment to be fully, totally immersed in his grandson’s life. For the hour that I watched him, the conversation never faltered, never lagged. A surgeon’s scalpel could not have been more precise, as he excavated his grandson’s thoughts and hopes. Near the end of the meal, the grandson left his seat to sit next to his grandfather, to share calendars together. They had big plans. With more than a touch of envy, I wondered at my own ability to follow in this grandfather’s steps, sharing life’s secrets, dreams and mysteries with my own grandchildren. Total engagement is a powerful gift.
At our favorite once-a-week local eatery (not the one pictured above), we are known as “The Couple.” We huddle down into familiar chairs and pretend to have never seen the menu before. After much unnecessary deliberation, we order the same thing we ordered last week, and the week before. No matter. We will analyze the meal as if it were a brand new experience.
The servers all know us by name, as we also know them by name. It’s our version of the TV show, Cheers. While we may remain lost in our own world of conversation, we are also welcomed to swap stories with them, earning a way into their lives. Nobody is trying to impress anybody. There is little groundbreaking about it. It’s a comfortable weekly tradition. That’s why it is so welcoming. As we leave, I wish a good evening to our fellow diner who always protects the same seat in the same corner so that he can read his books.
It’s a sharp contrast to listening to the speaker whom I recently heard. His message was advertised as an event that would change our lives. As he warmed us up to his polished discourse, he reminded us of his extensive education. All along the way of his crafted speech, he gradually led us further into his grasp, as “we”–those of us who were savvy enough to catch his clever quips–were gradually separated from “them”–the unlucky non-hipster dolts who didn’t get, or didn’t appreciate, the inside jokes and insinuations. Given time, we were all expected to be a part of the “in” crowd, affirming his perspectives and humor with our approving laughter. In time, we would all endorse him.
Winston Churchill could pull this off. But lesser talents should beware. The risk is being written off as an insincere huckster, peddling a self-aggrandizing bill of goods.
At the end of his delivery, I tried hard to recall the good points that the speaker made, but I labored to embrace them. The process was neither enjoyable nor affirming.
At the end of this travail, I looked forward to Friday night, and to the friendly faces of those who expect me not to validate them for their talents and insights, but instead welcome me as their friend and equal.
One year ago, when our first grandchild was born, we entered the Grandparents’ Club.
The first chore was selecting a grandparenty-sounding name. So far, I’ve come up with nothing clever or memorable to compare with Boop-pa, Opa, or Papaw, so I’m stuck with the traditional grandfatherly names: Grandfather, Grandpa, Grampa, Grandpappy, Gramps, Granddad, Granddaddy, and Grandpop. Maybe it would be a grand time to just give myself that name I’ve always dreamed of having. How cool would it be to have my grandchild call me Elvis, Dean, Jerome, Connery, Nash, Bronson, or Samson?
By now, I’ve fully entered the slow-motion process of baby-discovering-the-world, in which the baby carefully hand-selects tiny morsels of food, which are gingerly hoisted mouthward. There, the tongue fishes them from the tiny fist, or the finger foods are relentlessly smashed into cheeks, shoved up nostrils or implanted into ear canals.
The baby explores all body parts–whether belonging to the baby or a neighboring adult–eagerly investigating with the fascination of an early explorer setting foot in the New World.
There’s much to admire in a baby. When it comes, giggling arrives genuine and fresh as unspoiled spring water from an aquifer. A baby is still unable to imagine contrivance or fabrication to produce a desired manipulative effect.
Why do we feel so good when we’re with a baby? In their presence, we have entered a welcome Small World, where we can understand and mitigate the consequences of their apparently modest choices. We can offer solutions in this miniaturized world, something we are less confident to achieve in our own larger, intimidating arena.
Perhaps most importantly, we can make happy and fun faces to the baby, and we will not be judged for it. We are free to sacrifice appearances to give them happiness.
And the doing of that–our creation of a joyous countenance–in turn, that generates the very same emotions within ourselves. The intentional, joyous emotion we present to them with our face reflects back to us from the child, penetrating our own heart and giving us joy.
No wonder we enter our night of sleep exhausted and weary, yet with the rewards marked by creases carved deeply by smiles and laughter, further identifying our furrowed faces as–grandparents.
This morning on the radio, I heard a woman tell the story of losing her voice. In place of her vocal chords, which had been removed because of disease, a device in her throat tried to overlay words upon the breath she expelled from her lungs. The resulting communication could not mimic the subtle intonations that a human voice produces. What remained was a digitally-produced monotone simulation of speech, her emotions drained from her words.
I expected this woman to be bitter over losing her own voice forever, never to sing, never to speak without drawing unwanted attention from those within earshot.
The sounds she emitted were less than sonorous. But the words she delivered were haunting.
“People remember me now,” she explained.
“Where have you been?” the salesperson had asked. “I’ve missed seeing you!” Our vocal-chord deprived friend had visited the shop only once previously—a full year ago.
“Since I lost my voice, I’ve never been happier,” the odd, buzzing voice explained. “I’ve learned to value what I have left. I still have my life. Yes, I may have lost my voice,” the digitized vocal chords continued, “but I’ve really gained my life. From that day forward, I have never had a bad day–ever!”
Despite having minimal ability to express emotions through her voice, her words had no difficulty traveling from her heart to mine.
I felt myself shrink just a bit. I wondered what conditions it takes to have a good day.
Losing a voice might do it. Paralysis might do it.
We’ve seen these two Tweedledum and Tweedledee-like fellows before. Maybe not these identical fellows, but we’ve seen similar folks.
Here they are, minutes before they begin their performance, while they are still bendable, putting the finishing touches on their costumes.
Soon they will begin their street-side mime routines, becoming frozen and unmoving on the sidewalk, mimicking metallic sculptures stiffly locked in place, awaiting the monetary incentive from a passerby to grind into action. Until then, they will remain still and silent.
While in their static position, these two will appear to have been in the company of King Midas, who turned everything he touched into precious but lifeless metal by virtue of the magical gift he received, fulfilling his insatiable greed.
An uncertain child bearing a small gratuity for the street performers will eventually approach them hesitantly on tip-toe, coaxed on by an encouraging parent. At the moment the child’s meager coin reaches the performers’ basket, the frozen sculptures will leap into action, gyrating through a crazy series of excited moves, brought spontaneously, and briefly, to life.
Gradually, the robots will appear to run out of power and again hibernate, stiffly awaiting their next coin-induced spasmodic flurry of movement.
Other children’s touches will again break the Midas spell over the characters, periodically unfreezing them. During these moments, the children’s innocent, Un-Midas Touches will briefly assuage the urgent need and greed displayed by the metallic figures.
For a few moments, they, like ourselves, will shake off isolating temporal concerns and, once again, remember what it is to be fully alive.
As I walk past artist James Turrell’s architectural installation, the color of the light emitted from the art constantly changes against the evolving hues of the sky. The light-splashed square opening in the artwork frames the sky above, so the interplay of light is never the same from moment to moment, from sunrise to sundown. The combinations are unpredictable.
If our lives are the sculpture, the light we generate interacts against the backdrop of the ever-changing light of the world we live in. No wonder life can be perplexing. Sometimes we can manage a chameleon-like blend with our surroundings. Other times we feel an uncomfortable clash with our environment.
