The Deafening Sounds of Silence

I have two ears to hear by. Sound comes in, bounces around, moves the required bones and cartilage to translate what is heard to the brain, which then deciphers the audible translation into recognizable sounds. It is a complicated process, but simple enough to me. I hear what I hear.

My grandma used to tell me that I had selective hearing. I would only hear the things I wanted to hear. Never would I hear her tell me what chores to do. Always would I hear that is was dinnertime. To some extent, I will admit that it is true. I might have done that. I might still do that.

I hardly ever drive my bus without listening to some music. I love music. It is a big part of my life. It can soothe my nerves with sweet sounds. It can make me want to ram the vehicle in front of me with its heavy sounds. It can make me smile with sounds of pure silliness. If there is nothing worth listening to on the radio, I simply push a button and music from the 6-disc CD changer starts playing songs that I want to hear. But just yesterday, I opted to not listen to music. I just wanted to listen to the sounds that Oscar made as we rode as a team down the road. I wanted to hear what he had to tell me. I heard the squeak of the spring attached to the accelerator pedal as my foot commanded more or less speed. I heard the tires meeting the pavement, holding on ever so tightly to the surface of the road. I heard a whum-whum noise coming from the front end, telling me that some wheel bearings needed adjusting or replacing. I heard the engine firing and exhaust belching; the wind howling through the open vents and open windows; the whine of air being sliced by the roof rack. In all of this I heard sounds of what needed to be done, and the normal sounds that a 30 year old vehicle makes while it keeps on keeping on.

I did something today, that to some might seem to be punishing myself, but to me, it was something I felt I needed to do. After doing it, I kind of saw the “punishing myself” side, but I had done it and got what I needed out of it. I had been packing boxes and moving stuff to my new place today. On my final trip over there, I decided to pull into Red Clay State Park, which is on the way to my new home. Red Clay is special to me, not only because of my Cherokee heritage (which I need to embrace more tightly, I haven’t for many years), but because of other, deeper loving reasons. It was there that my ex and I had gotten married. It was there that family and friends came to witness the ultimate public act of love and affection. It was there that I went today. I went there for some solitude and to look for peace. I went there to listen to what nature had to say.

I heard birds singing back and forth to each other. I wondered what they were saying with their chirps, warbles, and whistles. I heard the water as it bubbled up and out of the spring and made its way down the narrow stream. I remember pictures taken across that stream…the rocks we stood on are still there, but they are being used as bases for the new bridge that crosses the stream. I couldn’t tell what the water was saying. I heard the wings of yellow-jackets as they streamed in and out of their nest, a nest that surely would have been right in the middle of where people were sitting for the ceremonial union of souls that was our wedding day. The yellow-jackets didn’t know where they had made their nest…they just kept coming and going in steady streams. I sat down in the Cherokee tribal council shelter. I could imagine the drumbeats and chanting as the council convened, possibly in the very spot where I was sitting. I listened as hard as I could, but couldn’t actually hear voices or drumbeats. Pretty soon I realized that I wasn’t going to hear anything in this place. Not with my ears. What I needed to hear wasn’t going to be heard in the normal way of hearing. So I started listening with my heart. I started to hear things, happy things; happy things that made me sad. As beautiful and peaceful as this place is; as quiet and full of history that Red Clay is…I listened with my heart and discovered that I couldn’t be at this place. I couldn’t be where the one person who I had given my heart to, my life to, my love to; and the one person who is now gone from my heart…had given of herself back to me in this place. I probably can someday, but not today. I heard my heart tell me the things that I had done to hurt her, the things done without realizing what was being done, the things that I never would have intentionally done. I couldn’t listen anymore, so I quickly took some pictures and made my way back to my bus to continue on.

Sometimes ears aren’t the only things you hear with. Your heart tells you things as well. Sometimes the things you hear are not what you want to hear. I tune them out when I can. And when I can’t, the sound is more deafening than a jet plane just over my head. That’s when I turn on the selective hearing, just like grandma said. I had always been good at it, I suppose. It doesn’t work as well as it used to, though. I think that is because I am teaching myself to listen more, to hear the things just under the audible range, to notice things unseen, to see things more clearly. To close my ears and open my heart. Is this a good thing? I don’t know. Someone I am very interested in told me something that her Gramps told her about. Whenever he was trying to make a decision, based on his smarts or what his feelings were about the situation, he would use this equation:

Emotion over intellect = Failure
Intellect over emotion = Success

Does this mean I am destined to failure because I listen with my heart? I am a very emotional person. But I also consider myself to be somewhat smart. At least I am not a stupid man. But will the heart overthrow the brain? If I listen to what the heart has to say instead of the brain, am I doomed to a life of misery and despair? I hope not. Because I always, always listen to what I feel. Maybe I should re-introduce those two parts of my body, the brain and the heart, and teach them to communicate better, to learn lessons from each other. Keep them in tune and let their friendship grow. That way, maybe Gramps’ equation could turn out more like this:

Emotion + Intellect = Happy life

It is late. I think I am going to lay my head down on a pillow and see what it tells me. I think it will be singing a lullaby. That’s a good thing.

Wandering Words from Brew Bus and Beyond

The echoes of the music faded into the dark of night as I slowly made my way back to my bus, my home in the woods for the weekend. The past two days have been just wonderful. Many friends have been reunited, new ones made, and memories embedded into the hearts of everyone there. I had spent this Saturday hanging out with friends in the mountains of North Carolina for Brew Bus, where brothers and sisters of the Full Moon Bus Club had gathered to camp and to sample several varieties of home brews, made with love for all to enjoy. I had tasted my share of brews. Not enough to get drunk by no means, but I did taste all there was to offer. I was now headed back to my bus to curl up in the back and sleep till morning.

We had arrived Friday in the mid hours of afternoon after driving for nearly 5 hours in the beautiful North Carolina mountains. I was fourth in line of five buses (front to back: Brian and Crystal in Mack, a '67; Gary and Hal in Tiki, a '67; Alex, Corey, Justin and Cornbread (his nickname for the weekend...long story!) in Alex's '71; me in Oscar, a '78; and Moose, Chris, and Stacy in Westy, an '81). You would think that one of us would have trouble on the road, but we arrived without incident. I was in good spirits. The trip hadn't started out that way for me. Let me elaborate...in words that wander like ivy...

Back up a few months. The time of fence repair. The time for healing of wounds and mending of holes. It was good to clear things up, but it was also the start of a test. You never know who to trust. I wanted to find out if something said would get to where I knew it would end up. Something I said, something said about things I used to do, something said which I believed to be in confidence (now why would I think that?) was not exactly the truth. I told this to several people. Of course, the untruth wrapped in a shroud of truth ended up exactly where I thought it would, and then it went on to where I expected it to as well. But where it eventually ended up, it ended up there through only one source. I know how it got there. I'm no dummy. The test results didn't surprise me in the least.

So, now back to Friday. Someone who I know cares about me discussed this "untruth" with me. If I didn't care for this person as well, it really would have bothered me more than it did. Mostly because there was some partial truth to it, partly because I have been thinking about other things said for quite a while. Along with the "untruth", points were made concerning reasons behind my divorce. I don't take and won't take the blame for the divorce...at least all the blame. It takes two to tango and no one can tell me that the tango is a solo performance. But these things have been on my mind for a long time. I thought I would never see my role in the degradation of my marriage. But, lo and behold, I see the light! I'm not going to go into why right now. I'll save that for later. But I do know that I am beginning to see, and I don't like what I see. I don't like the fact that I did things with blinders on, with a tough skin that couldn't feel the love for me eroding, in a self-induced fog of nonchalance.

I hate myself for that. I don't know if I can forgive myself for that. I still see that it wasn't a one-sided situation, not one person was to blame, but I sure do see what I did. I hurt and I can't stand it one bit.

This brings on another point...forward in time a few days...I saw someone crying and I couldn't just stand by and not try to console. I'm not even going to give any hints that would give this person away, but the situation is similar to mine, only from the other standpoint. This person was hurting, I feel, not because of a lost love, but because the whole thing was being drawn out, and they just wanted it to end, to be over. I empathize. I feel what this person was feeling. After giving my two cents, I gave this person a hug, not only to make them feel better, but to make myself feel better too. Because, while talking to this person, and especially after, I started to think about my situation. And then I started crying too. I couldn't help it. I started feeling like everything was my fault, that I was a worthless being who deserves every bad thing that comes my way. I saw my dad in me and I was appalled. But I am not him, I am me, and I can rise above feeling like dirt. And I will.

I talked with others about my conversation on Friday. I can't help the way others feel, but I do know that even if it isn't any body's business of what I do, I still love the conversationalist and can see the caring points made. Some facts are skewed, because of the test I started a few months ago. It gave results and it is done. The pencils are lain down and the papers are handed in.

Back in time again...Saturday night turned to Sunday morning. Breakfast and packing and driving home again. 6 hours of driving and thinking and reflection. I see who I am. I like who I am. I just see that there are faults that need tending to, correcting, and feel that there might not be a need for any more tests.

Wanderlust

I’ve always envied those who travel a lot. Well, not just those who travel a lot, but those who travel as a lifestyle. Oh, to just get into the car (or, in my case, a VW Bus, which I find even more exciting and adventurous) and go. Planned or unplanned…I don’t care. I have always thought the unplanned trip would be more of an adventure than a planned one. I can imagine putting a spinner atop a map to decide which way to go. Go in the direction the arrow points and don’t waver. Keep going until something tells you to stop, and then do the spinner thing again. I bet you would end up in unexpected places.

I have never just gone on a trip without a plan or without knowing where I was going. It is something that I had always wanted to do, but haven’t done to date. On the road, Kerouac style; going and going ala Easy Rider; cross country on an Incredible Journey. Not knowing the destination and arriving in an unexpected place. I suppose I could have done this many years ago. I could have taken off and explored this county, this country, this world. I could have done this before finding love and all that goes with it. But I didn’t. I didn’t and that is that. Do I regret it? I could say that I do. I don’t regret getting married, having children, having a job to go to every day. I do regret not having seen more of this great big world.

Back when I was still in elementary school, I was selected from a group of kids in my church school to attend a Pan American Camporee in the countryside of Mexico. Thousands of kids from South America, Central America, and North America gathered at a huge campground several hours south of Mexico City. I felt privileged to attend this event. Never before had I been out of the country, let alone fly on a jet plane. I think I was twelve years old and the world was this huge thing that needed exploring. The campground was just huge. There was a soccer (futball) stadium where we had meetings and even watched a game, and a giant pool with a 3-tiered diving platform. I remember climbing the ladder to the second tier and thinking it was just way too tall. I jumped anyway and it seemed like I was falling for 5 seconds. That doesn’t sound like a long time, but when you are falling, it seems like a lifetime. We got to visit some pyramids, stay in a swanky motel in downtown Mexico City, visit with some locals, and get a taste of local culture by attending a traditional wedding. Although I may never go back to Mexico, I will always remember my time there.

Several years later, I took a trip with my high school band to Jamaica. Wow. I will never forget that trip. It was my second time in a plane and the second time out of the country. We stayed in the dormitory of a university. Different cultures bring different tastes. For breakfast, we had warm milk and cold coffee, but every day there was fresh fruit on our plates. The people in Jamaica, at least the ones we were exposed to, seemed to be nice people. Little did I know of the poverty of the small villages. The rich were really rich, and the poor were dirt poor. I think we were shielded from the worst places. I remember going to Ocho Rios, where Dunn’s River Falls is located, a popular tourist attraction. It was there that I first heard the phrase “No problem, mon” repeated over and over. It was also there that a friend and I bought some of the best weed I had ever seen up till then. A man standing by a huge tree had a display of paintings that he was selling. While we were looking at the paintings, he asked if there was anything else we needed (he was putting his fingers to his mouth in a “joint-holding” fashion). Of course, this got us interested, so we said we were. He removed a painting from the tree that hid a panel cut out of the tree, opened the panel and inside were the biggest buds I had ever seen. I think that we only spent about $20 for a bud the size of my hand. That bud got us high, but it also got us in trouble. Little did I know that a girl I was trying to impress by giving her some of this killer weed, on the night before we were to head back to the states, would try to smoke it in the bathroom of the dormitory, get caught, and promptly name my friend and I as the ones who gave it to her. I was not happy about it, because I was being oh, so careful, and got into trouble because of someone else. Even though I got into some trouble, I will never forget my time there either.

Then there was my honeymoon to the Bahamas. Good times. I won’t go into it because the happy memories there make me sad…there were trips to Maine and New York. Again, good times. Trips to Florida beaches and Disney World. Good times. But the one thing that all these trips have in common, from Mexico to Florida is that they were all planned. We knew where we were going, what we were going to do, and where we would end up. There was a little level of spontaneity involved, but for the most part, events were planned. There’s nothing wrong with that; order is good. It has been said that it isn’t the destination that’s the most important; it’s the journey along the way to the destination that matters most. Unexpected things happen along that journey.

Life has order laced with a lot of uncertainty. You think you have it all planned out, then something hits you and throws you into a loop. Right now, I am being bombarded by uncertainties; by unexpected things. I don’t know where the destination will be where I end up. Life is taking me to unexpected places. These places may not be where I had planned on ending up, but they also might be the right places where I was meant to be. I just have to believe that things happen for a reason, that life isn’t fun if it a rigidly planned out trip, with no side journeys or unexpected places ahead or in the rear view mirror.

I have a camping journal that I keep record of places I have camped (thanks D!) I only got it this past Christmas, so there are not a lot of entries in it, but one of the latest entries is profound to me. Someone who I had just met wrote something in it that defines a life that is less than boring. What she wrote was this:

“Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside totally worn out and proclaiming, ‘Wow, what a ride!’”

I haven’t led a life that leads to skidding in broadside into anywhere. I don’t think I am looking for that sort of life. But the sentiment of living a life full of adventure sure does appeal to me. I want more out of this life than just living. I have reasons for loving life, my kids, my friends, my family, past and future lovers, and enjoying being myself. But I know there is a whole lot of living out there that I haven’t lived. There are lots and lots of unexpected places to end up. An unplanned life sounds all right to me, although it may be just something that is found in movies or books…or perhaps in the mind of a dreamer.

I heard a quote that made me think of this entire theme behind this writing, and I heard it in an unexpected place. I heard it in a movie that I had rented for the kids called “Snow Buddies”. Yes, yet another sequel to the Air Bud series, only this one has the litter created in an earlier movie ending up in Alaska and running in a sled team…and winning the race against experienced Huskies, by the way. One of the native pups, I believe was part wolf, and the quote came from an old wolf who was giving advice to the young pup. I am not a fan of these movies, and I find it odd that this quote gave me chills when I heard it. I even had to rewind the movie to make sure I heard what I thought I heard…

“Remember, life will take you to unexpected places. But have faith, and you are exactly where you need to be.”

I have faith. I think I am ending up in an unexpected place. But maybe it is exactly where I need to be.

Mummy Fingers

Man, am I stuffed. I just finished a big plate of spaghetti and Italian bread. The sauce was laden with onions garlic, mushrooms, tomatoes (in addition to the tomato sauce), and vegetarian meatballs (which are just as good as real meatballs, thank you). The Italian bread was brushed with margarine and sprinkled with crushed garlic. If I wasn’t so full, what I just typed would sound delicious, but now it just sounds like way too much.

I still have the bandages on my hand. Have I mentioned I had hand surgery a few weeks ago? I don’t think I have. Back in the fall of last year, I noticed a bump emerging on the middle finger of my right hand. I thought it was a wart (eww!) but it looked a little different. What made me rethink the notion that it was a wart? Pain. Every time it got hit, searing pain would course through my finger. I mean to tell you, it really hurt. I have had warts before and never did one of them cause that kind of pain. Well, over the months, it got bigger and I finally went to the doctor in early May and he diagnosed the bump as a ganglion cyst. He noticed another one on my thumb (I felt this one, but thought is was just a bony protrusion because it was so hard). He said that there was this thick, nasty liquid surrounding a bundle of nerves. An appointment was made to remove these things. D, being the sweetie that she is, offered to take me to the surgical center. Of course, I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink the night before the surgery. What does she do when we get there? Right in front of me, she asks the receptionist where the cafeteria was because she was hungry. Tease.

The last time I had surgery, it was for a lateral release of a tendon on my right knee. I walk weird. Well, at least weird enough to over use the outer muscles and tendons surrounding the patella (knee cap) and under use the inner ones. The result was my knee cap being off center and causing wear on the under side of the cap. What they had to do was make an incision in the tendon to allow it to stretch and allow my patella to return to the center of my knee where it was supposed to be. When I woke up from the anesthesia, I was groggy, my stomach hurt, and food wasn’t something that I wanted, even though it had been over 12 hours since I ate last. This time, I was a little groggy, but my stomach didn’t hurt and I was ready to eat.

Anyway, I had the surgery and the bandages come off tomorrow, and the stitches come out. Typing sure has been fun with two oversized appendages constantly clicking two or more keys at the same time. Giving the “thumbs up” to people at work makes me look like I’m giving them the finger since I can’t bend my middle finger into the fist required for a “thumbs up”. They think it is funny for the man with the mummified fingers to flip them off like that. I swear the wrapped fingers look like the fingers from the hand of a mummy. Bandages that look dirty and older than time. I WANT THEM OFF! The doctor told D (he told her because I was happily dreaming about dancing bananas and ligers at the time) that the one on my middle finger turned out to be a fibrous cyst instead of liquid and that it might come back at some time in the future. Great. More pain for me to look forward to with great anticipation.

I don’t want more pain. I don’t deal easily with pain. I admit it; I am a wuss when it comes to pain. Several years ago, I remember walking into the bathroom here at home and hitting the door jamb with my pinky toe, bending the toe nail back, not enough to rip it off, but enough to make it bleed and hurt REAL BAD. I starting sweating and my ex told me that my face was white as a bleached sheet. It’s a wonder that I didn’t end up passing out. On the day of my surgery, D wanted me to help Char to move a couch from the back porch to the front porch. Everything was fine until I started backing up the steps. These aren’t the normal steps that are shallow. These are the tall steps made of cinder block coated with cement. I was wearing my Birkenstocks (the doctors said to be comfortable, and even if he hadn’t, I would have been wearing them anyway) and scraped my heel on those steps. I had lifted my foot the height that a normal step would have been. It felt like I had punctured my heel with the sharp edge of a rock. Turned out, there wasn’t even a mark where I had hit it, but it too, hurt REAL BAD.

I can and most likely will deal with physical wounds. It may hurt, but they heal. Like D said, wounds heal, but leave scars. Scars are a reminder of the hurt. But what about the scars you can’t see? What about the emotional scars left behind from wounds inflicted emotionally? Those wounds that are hidden deep inside and harder to heal than actual wounds. They say that time heals all wounds. That may be true, but what length of time will it take to heal the wounds deep inside of me? No one can see them, but I can feel them. How will I know when they heal? Will I feel the wound close and scar up? You know what? I think I will just know. There may not be a great epiphany of great healing. I may not feel it when it happens. Or it may happen with a loud noise, a punch in the gut, or a kick in the ass.

Tonight, before cooking the aforementioned delicious supper, I had to wash dishes. Kind of hard to do one handed, but I did it. I had help (bless you, Big T, but daddy wants a moment alone), but turned it down. I didn’t want my little girl to see me like I was. I was thinking about this very thing. How I hurt and how I know the woman I have loved and will always love is hurting too. I know she is, but I can’t see it. I thought about that and I cried while one handed dish washing. I cried about how much I miss her, about a bunch of “ifs” that could have changed the outcome of our marriage, and about wondering if she missed me at all. If I knew that she missed me for one moment, for just one second even, I think the hurt could lessen. I will miss her for as long as I will love her: forever.

Hurt will happen again. But so will healing. It’s inevitable as life itself. You cannot expect to live a life without hurt and pain, whether physically or emotionally. You just have to take them as they come. Take them, like it or not they are coming. But usually on the heels of hurt and pain comes happiness.

I hope so.