Random Thoughts from a Restless Mind

Sunday musings…

1) Seige. A group of herons. Right up there with a mob of meerkats.

2) Gale. The gales of November may remember, but the 50MPH gusts over Lake Erie this morning are shaping up as unforgettable.

3) Privacy. There is an LA impresario of the highest end social scene who opines that privacy is the new luxury. At best I am a “C” list celebrity with “B” list aspirations, so I have no first hand knowledge to share (if I go to the grocery store in a T shirt I am completely anonymous). I admit a serious respect for Meg Ryan who slipped from public view some years ago; “I lost interest in Hollywood at the same time Hollywood lost interest in me.” Her piquant observation sheds a bit of light on this new “privacy” trend: “I can still get reservations but I only show up in other people’s paparazzi pictures now.”

There’s an awful lot of truth still contained in the near-existential question: would you rather we rich or famous? For those who are both it may very well be that privacy is the most expensive thing they buy.

4) Grief. We find ourselves, Beth and I that is, at a moment in our lives when death and dying is seemingly coming at us from all directions. Parents have departed as have friends, and tragically the children of friends. How to process these losses, how to grieve, is a bit of a challenge for us. What does it mean to grieve? For how long does/can one do it? Is grieving an outward-facing activity or is it necessarily one that is cocooned within? There are no answers to these questions of course, at least not universal ones that can be applied to every person and every death.

While I openly confess that this topic is never far from my mind, grief and grieving find their way here in “Musings” this morning as my sister and her husband bury his brother (gone at approximately my age or close thereto). While thinking about Peter’s death I stumbled upon Scott Van Pelt’s ESPN moment when he acknowledged the “Deathday” anniversary of his Dad’s passing some 31 years ago. Google it. He is wonderful in these two minutes. Van Pelt gets two things very right when he encourages one to address the loss openly, and to then use that opportunity to reach out and just as openly express your love and gratitude for the opportunity to do that with those still here with you.

Grieving looks different on everyone who bears the grief. Beth continues to be a rock, stolid after losing her Dad, her Mom, and her beloved little mutt in 2 years time. I, on the other hand, openly wept at the end of Mr. Van Pelt’s piece when he spoke to his Dad and hoped that he would have been proud of the life his son had created. I know that Beth deeply misses her parents. She still finds herself picking up the phone to call when something that would make one or the other of them smile comes up, only to put the phone down in a quietly wistful moment. My Mom is still here, as are all of my siblings (and Beth’s) and our entire generation of grandchildren. No matter how often one did it before, how hard must it be to reach to call a sibling who is no longer here to answer?

Grieving may be a process with neither a true beginning nor a true end. Our Jewish friends may have it more right than the rest of us when they “sit Shiva” after the death of a family member. One week given to grief. Fully permissioned to grieve in whatever manner best fits you with both a start and a finish. One doesn’t stop missing the dead when Shiva is finished of course, but one has permission to stop grieving. From there one could do worse than choose to follow Scott Van Pelt’s gentle suggestions that remembering is good, missing is healthy, and loving is healing.

5) Mist. Apropos of the above, here is a re-post of the last time I got to visit with my Dad when he was his old self:

My siblings and I only need to remember one weekend each year when it comes to celebrating my Dad. His birthday almost always falls within a day or two of Father’s Day. So it was that I found myself in Rhode Island the past couple of days, in the company of my Mom and a guy masquerading as my Dad, a guy who was very curious about the new fella who’d dropped by for a visit.

Getting old is not for sissies, my friends.

Somewhere inside, deep inside, there’s still some of my Dad in the jumbled up connections of his mind, carried by the body that failed him in such spectacular fashion 2 ½ years ago. Dad is extremely intelligent, the only family member in his generation to have gone to college. Quite the athlete, he used football and the GI Bill to pay for school. Like so many in his generation he then worked, raised a family, and put himself through grad school. He won his club championship in golf twice at the ages of 50 and 60. No typo. Beat the reigning RI State Amateur champ on his home course for the first one.

As we sat on the porch of his house overlooking the par 5  14^th hole, I had an ever so brief visit from that guy. From my Dad. Like a citizen of Brigadoon he came slowly through the mist of his mind to join me for a bit. We’d always bonded over golf. My brother and I never turned down an invitation to join him on the course, either as partners or as caddies for him and his buddies. It was quite a privilege to do either; my Dad’s most elemental essence was expressed on the golf course.

A light breeze was blowing through the forest in the back yard just beyond the rough. We chuckled at the golfers who failed to take the wind into consideration, sheepishly trying to sneak into our yard to retrieve their out-of-bounds second shot. Dad talked about caddying as a kid in the Depression. We both noted the absence of caddies as the foursomes passed in and out of view. It was really very nice.

I quite like the Dad of my adulthood. Quick to smile, slow to anger, unfailingly loyal and kind. It’s hard to imagine now how distant he was when I was a boy, his friendship as an adult is so easy. I’m not sure how long we sat there to be honest, nor when I noticed that he was slipping away. As surely as the village of Brigadoon disappears, the mist had returned to claim him. I got up, walked over to his chair, held his hand and gave him a kiss. I wished him a Happy Birthday and a Happy Father’s Day, hoping that I’d made it on time. That he was still there. That he knew it was me, Darrell, his oldest child. I told him I loved him.

He smiled and gave my hand a little pat as he disappeared into the mist.”

I’ll see you next week…

Sunday musings…

1) Metier. Trade, profession, occupation. More so, something at which you excel.

Not necessarily trade, profession, or occupation.

2) Rigadoon. A lively dance for couples in duple or quadruple time. Pick a headline of the coupled. Any headline.

See also, “Flaneur”. Because: duple.

3) Hope. “Hope is a waking dream.” Aristotle

To have hope is to have a reason to go on. The dream, as it were, is worth following in the hope that one will see it fulfilled. At the same time hope can be a bad dream, one that must be abandoned in order that one can begin anew. After all, reality awaits as we awaken, however fervently we cling to our dreams.

4) Gray. Where did all of this gray hair come from? In 6 months I’ve become…ahem…distinguished. The actor William H. Macy: “Treat getting older as a success. Celebrate it.”

Guess I’m sporting my own “silver medal”.

5) Destiny. Our oldest child, The Heir, is at this moment on his way west, transporting his little family to a new beginning in Denver. Like so many young people before them he and his wife will seek their fortune in the New Territories, hundreds of miles from their families and the land of their youth.
To be sure we did this, Beth and I, and we understand all that goes into the decision. Seeing them off is bittersweet. They, like us at their age, are strikingly independent. A little part of our souls is stashed in their luggage, just in case they need us.

With the rising sun at his back the dawn of our family seeks his destiny just beyond our view as Beth and I contemplate the sunset.

I’ll see you next week…

Complex: consisting of many different and connected parts.

Complicated: difficult to analyze, understand, or explain.

This week’s epiphany: The National Enquirer engages in unsavory behavior. Shocking, I know. Jeff Bezos, the world’s richest man, has publicly accused the
Enquirer of threatening to publish scandalous pictures of him and of his paramour if Mr. Bezos failed to publicly state that the Enquirer was not participating in any type of political skullduggery as it related to stories published in the Washington Post. While discussing his ownership of the Post Mr. Bezos coined what looks like an entirely new word as he tried to explain the effect of owning a national newspaper has had on his life. He called the Washington Post a “complexifyer”.

I think he is trying to say that his ownership makes his life more difficult, though I can’t figure out if he means complicated, complex, or some amalgam of both.

Does he mean that the addition of The Post has increased the number of elements in his life that he is forced to address? That would, indeed, be an increase in the complexity brought on by owning the newspaper. One could easily see that his worldview was expanded well beyond the already enormous one that must exist simply by dint of the massive enterprise he has created and runs. Additionally, publishing a newspaper in Washington, D.C. probably brings him into close contact with a plethora of national and international issues, as well as the real, live people who are involved in them. Many more pieces parts now connected to him through the Washington Post equals more complexity.

On the other hand you might get a sense that he is describing his ownership of The Post as something that is making his life more difficult. Whether or not he has a hand in the general editorial direction of the newspaper, he is certainly being accused of directing at least some of the story lines therein (see: National
Enquirer, blackmail). For a guy who heretofore had been more than a bit reluctant to be seen as a public figure it has to be a shock to find oneself as such an “interesting” person. Of course, there are about 150 Billion reasons why people might be interested in his love life even without the hacking prowess exhibited by the Enquirer. [As an aside, can someone explain to me why so many otherwise really smart people insist on sending photos of their genitalia to anyone, anywhere, ever?] Mr. Bezos life is most assuredly more complicated now that he owns the Washington Post.

So which is it then? Is the Washington Post a complexifyer or a complicator? I love words, and I love the pursuit of the best word for a particular sentence. To be truthful I sat down to write this with the intention of declaring Mr. Bezos a faux sophist who chose to use a rather obscure word simply because it sounded good. You know, reaching for a 50 cent piece when a nickel would do. As I’ve worked through it though I’ve come to the conclusion that he is actually on point. Mr. Bezos is famous for being a jealous guardian of his time. For example, he does not schedule meetings earlier than 10AM so that he can participate in the morning routine of his family (likely to become more complex and complicated). Although it is a tiny part of his financial and business portfolios I think what he was saying is that owning The Post reduces his ability to manage the various and sundry components of his life and their attendant demands on his time. Ownership of the Washington Post is, indeed, a complexifyer.

Complexity Theory is the study of large systems that perform intricate and coordinated functions. Research in this field seeks to uncover the underlying rules on a micro level that govern these systems. Although in many ways larger than life, Mr. Bezos hardly qualifies as a “large system”. Neither do you or I, for that matter. Still, his experience of highly elevated complexity brought on by a single decision might be instructive to even those of us with far, far fewer zeros at the end of our financial statements. Complexity and complications abound for all of us. I wonder if it might be instructive to review our own acquisitions in the same light.

I’ll see you next week…