Random Thoughts from a Restless Mind

Dr. Darrell White's Personal Blog

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Santa Will Always Be Real

“Santa is the Spirit of Giving. He is always real.” –Beth White

Once again my darling wife Beth knocks it out of the park. We have a couple of little ones again in the White house, and because of that we will have a healthy dose of Santa in our lives. While I realize that Beth and I will not really have a say in whether or not the whole Santa Claus story plays out in our grandchildren’s houses, what he stands for is important. Important enough for us to have had him in all his splendor and glory when The Heir, Lovely Daughter, and Lil’bingo were growing up. Important for us to draw out the time before Lil’bingo came to the realization that Santa was not a real person for as long as possible, so deep was his love for the furry fat guy he called “Key Klaus”.

Rest assured, the parental units in Clan White did struggle with how to handle the inherent subterfuge that is necessary to have the Santa Claus story as part of our children’s upbringing. From the very beginning, though, the message was about the giving, about generosity and caring enough about someone else that you not only gave them a gift, but you gave them a gift that let them know how much you cared about them. You know, the “spirit” in the Spirit of Giving, if you will.

No matter how you massage it, that day of reckoning when your child finally realizes that the character Santa Claus is nothing more than the figurative representation of the giving concept can be fraught with all kinds of emotional trauma. For sure you might get a dose of “you lied to me”, but in my now decades of experience being around parents it’s actually rather rare for this one to pop up. What you generally face is sadness, with maybe a touch of disappointment and even mourning tossed in just to add a little sting to the moment. Like so much else about parenting, or even just about kindness, these are times when you get to talk about and teach really important lessons. Here the lesson is about giving of yourself, with or without a physical gift to actually give.

While thinking about this we stumbled upon a lovely little story about how one family handled both the “Santa isn’t real” revelation and the “Santa is real” in spirit thing. Heck, the story may even be true! A Dad sensed that his son was pretty much on the cusp of discovering that the guy in the red suit wasn’t really the real deal. His approach? He talked to his son about how he sensed that he, the son, looked like he was not too sure about the Santa Claus character. The Dad complimented his son on being a caring young man: “Everyone who cares, who is generous can be a Santa. I’m very impressed by how kind you are. I think you are ready to become a Santa, too.”

The Dad went on to ask his son to think about someone in his world who looked like they were sad. Maybe a bit lonely even. He tasked the boy with thinking very hard about what that person might really like as a present. Something they needed, and something that would express that whoever gave it to them realized this need, and cared enough to give them a present that helped to meet that need. There was a catch, though: the recipient was never to know who gave them the gift. For the son the satisfaction was in the caring and in the giving, not in the recognition and praise that might follow.

It doesn’t really matter who the child chose or what he gave; you can trust that the story–true or not–is just lovely right to the end. What matters is that this very young boy is escorted through what can be a very sad stage in a young life by a caring and thoughtful parent. On the other side of this journey emerges a young man who has learned the true meaning of Santa Claus in the secular Christmas story. He has learned that what matters about Santa Claus is real indeed, and always has been.

Santa Claus is the Spirit of Giving. He will always be real.

Sunday musings… While Babysitting

Our little cottage is filled to the gills with a couple of our grandchildren while their parents enjoy a weekend away. I’ve forgotten how intense it is to take care of little ones all day for several days. Making things a bit more challenging, the Littles have some kind of bug that has laid both of them low with fevers and all the fixins. For all of my efforts to demonstrate my evolution as a partner in the parenting game a couple of things are starkly evident. I am much more capable of devoting the entirety of my attention to the blocking and tackling of caring for grandchildren. Despite that, just like it was with our own kids, 90% of the time only Grammy will do; my role is to be ever-ready on the sidelines in “point-and-shoot” mode when she needs me.

While I feel I should be doing more, that the bar for my success as a teammate is ludicrously low, in the end this is essentially what Landon, Lila, and Beth need from me this weekend.

Esquire has a cover article on Bruce Springsteen that I’m slowly working through, one that spends quite a bit of time on Springsteen’s lifelong quest to figure out who he really is. He has a funny little quirk. Each time the writer asks a question that requires a deeper bit of self-awareness Springsteen looks into a mirror in his office before he answers. It’s as if he needs to be reminded that he is answering as Bruce, or supposed do be answering as Bruce, not BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN. Almost like he is parsing the question “who am I when it’s just me looking in the mirror” before each answer.

Making this an even bigger challenge, the whole “who am I” thing keeps changing. The longer we live the more versions of ourselves emerge. Some of them even real! Returning for a moment to our weekend with the Littles, Papi really is a different but altogether real version of who I am at this moment in life. For sure I am no less frustratable, and I probably don’t really have all that much more patience than I did as Dad. Oh no. I feel all of that now, too. The difference is that for whatever reason I have now essentially embraced these and other feelings as an essential part of an activity that I truly want to engage in. Today I acknowledge their presence and experience rather than avoid them.

Who does this make me now? Springsteen had a famously fraught relationship with a father who never really accepted who he, Springsteen, was as a child and a young adult. As a father himself Springsteen learned to be present in the lives of his kids, and to at least try to accept them for who they are at any given moment in their lives. No matter how well or how poorly we may be at either or both of those with our kids, grandchildren give us a Mulligan. A do-over if you will, at least if you are fortunate enough to have a chance to be in their lives.

Many years ago I wrote about a long weekend spent in the mountains of Colorado in the company of friends at the time. Adult weekend we called it. What I recall was a rare feeling that for pretty much the whole weekend I felt like I was exactly who I thought I was when I looked in the mirror. At least the good parts of who I thought I was then. Pretty cool weekend. Interestingly it was a pretty easy weekend, too. No posing. No trying to anticipate what others expected, wanted, or needed. I just woke up and gave everyone whatever felt like the best part of me available at a given moment. Though I had no idea of the changes that were about to occur I had a pretty good idea of who I was that weekend.

Now? Ha! I can’t even figure out what the mirror even is right now. Is it truly the mirror over my sink, the one that reminds me of all the miles I’ve traveled and hours I’ve flown in the memory lines of my face? Could be. Always has been. Still, it may never have been that at all. The mirror in the mountains may have been my friends, and Beth, and how we were, all together. Today it may be the face of the children, or of Beth, as we make our way through this feverish weekend.

Or it’s all of those. That’s probably it. All of them. The mirror in the bathroom is the measure of where we are at the moment. It’s a good thing to know who you are at any given time. There are mirrors all around us that show us where we are going, or perhaps where we should be trying to go. I really would like to be enough for the Littles, but there are times when it will be someone else who they will need to be their enough. My role is to be ready if it’s ever my turn. Their faces tell me if I’ve learned enough patience, or if I’m as “in the moment” as I think I am. None of the mirrors lie to you, at least they don’t if you have your eyes open.

As the years have gone by I’ve become better at knowing who I am at any given moment when I look in the mirror.  Who I still need to become is there too, just in a different kind of mirror.

I’ll see you next week…


Sunday musings… A New Home

With the inaugural post here on Random Thoughts on April 4, 2009 I became a writer. It doesn’t take very much to be a writer, you know. A bit of free time and either a blank piece of paper or an empty draft space on a computer is the table stake. As soon as you mark that paper or hit the first key…SHAZAM!…you’re a writer. You may be very good, able to carve out  something that looks an awful lot like art. Or not. It doesn’t really matter, you see. If you write then ipso facto, you are a writer.

Now whether or not you are any good, or whether or not what you write has any value outside of what you, the writer, get out of it is another issue entirely. Why do you write? For whom are you writing? To whom, if anyone, are you writing? All of these questions may or may not be important, but the reality is that they only might become important if anyone other than you reads what you have written. If you write it is reasonable to presume that you, like me, get some benefit from the act of the writing. Beyond that we move into the murky world of motives and mercantilism, and since this little space is simply an extension of the chaos inside my little “Restless Mind” I will just leave your own “beyond” to you.

Over the years I have written in several places for several reasons to several audiences. Today marks the return home for all of my thoughts save for those in my professional world of eye care (which may also have a tiny place here as well). Some of you  stumbled upon my alter ego, “bingo”, in the fitness world where I have written “Sunday musings…” for some 10 years or so. Writing to the CrossFit community as a way to thank them, and CrossFit itself, for giving me a place to continue my life as an athlete, each Sunday I have tried to add a bit of thoughtfulness to our shared physical pursuits. “Sunday musings…” has often found itself here, and those essays and little thoughtlettes have occasionally gone on to become some of my better pieces when I gave them a longer look. “Into the Light” remains one of my favorite essays, and where that one piece has sent me both as a writer and a human being has been simply extraordinary.

Why now? Why bring everything home to “Random Thoughts”? Two things, really. First, the world is a whole lot more complex, and sadly much less kind and friendly than it was when I started talking to my fellow CrossFitters so long ago. Like the greater world at large there is at least as much emphasis on what separates us as that which we share. There one no longer writes on the equivalent of a chalk board at a commune of like-minded fitness “infidels” but rather under the watchful eyes of a grown-up digital company that acts to protect itself in a highly competitive business world. Mind you, this is neither good nor bad, it is simply the way of the world as it is today.

I envisioned myself writing “Sunday musings…” in the living room or while sitting at a dining room table in the “CrossFit home”. Everything I wrote came through a kind of filter that emanated from that scenery. I strove to be courteous, to write as if I was speaking as a guest at a party or dinner. One must be ever and always kind to one’s host, no? It’s not so much that I have the urge or the need to change what I write or how I say it, only that it now feels more like I’m sitting in the outer offices of a company with whom I do business, complete with everything that we have all come to associate with that. It’s hardly a CrossFit thing; take a look at Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. Heck, in my professional writing I have to self-censure because people read my drivel and are foolish enough to make business decisions based on my ramblings and my rants.

Why do I write? As I said in the very first post here I have found it very helpful in more ways than I can count to simply empty some of the space in my very restless mind so that there is room for growth. That kinda answers the next question, doesn’t it? I am writing for myself. Working out what I am thinking, and more so what I am feeling, has been incredibly helpful as I have navigated my little life’s journey. Sitting down to write every Sunday has imposed a tiny bit of discipline, not unlike having a workout schedule. Even if my life at any given moment was too whatever to write, each Sunday I would do whatever it took to write a little something. Again, not unlike going to the gym, the more I’ve done it the better I’ve gotten at doing it.

Which leaves only the question of whom it is I am writing to. It is flattering beyond belief that there is even one person who reads anything that I’ve written, let alone finds something in it that speaks to them. The fact is, I would be doing this even if you, a reader, wasn’t there. That you are, and more, that every now and again something I’ve written is in some way meaningful to you, well, that is just a wonderful gift from you to me. The equivalent of putting your hand in the front pocket of your jeans and finding a dollar bill. You can’t plan your budget around that, you know, but it makes you smile every time it happens.

“Sunday musings…” has become a tiny part of who I think I am when I look in the mirror. Beginning today it comes home the “Random Thoughts from a Restless Mind”. With a little bit of luck I will continue to sit down each Sunday morning and empty out a little corner of my internal hard drive. If some part of that moves you in any way, well, that will be that much better.

I’ll see you next week…

70, 200, 500, 1000 & 86,400 (Hat Tip to Parag M)

Imagine, if you will, that each day, precisely when you awaken, 86,400 pennies are deposited into your bank account. Every. Single. Day. Each night when you go to sleep whatever is left of that 86,400 pennies is removed from your account; every day you have to find some way to spend 86,400 pennies. What would you do? Would you put it in another account and let it grow slowly over time? Invest it in stocks or some other long-term plan? Get a bigger mortgage or a fancier car and use your pennies to make payments? Or would you perhaps give your pennies away, or even use your pennies for your own daily expenses and therefore buy the freedom to do, or be whatever it is that makes you (or those you love) happiest?

Would you spend a penny for the freedom to use your own time?

Of course many of you knew exactly where this little ditty was going to go as soon as you saw “86,400″, the famous number at the heart of Jim Valvano’s famous ESPY Awards speech as he was dying from cancer. There are 86,400 seconds in each day. No more and no less. You can’t bank them and save them for a rainy day. Each second has precisely the same value in that each sentence can only be filled by that which you choose. Valvano asked “how are you going to spend your 86,400?”

Another way to look at this is to ask what is your time worth to you. We’ve all heard the time-worn trope that “time is money”. Interestingly, the more affluent we become as a society, and the more affluent individuals become, the less time we all seem to have. Odd…ironic…isn’t it? I recently came across new terms: time poverty and time affluence. Interestingly, those at both extremes of the income scale can have either. It is striking that even the wealthiest among us, man and women who can (and do) pay to have all manner of the messy and menial tasks of their lives done by others (lawn, laundry, livery, etc.) find themselves swimming in an anxious and ever-shallower pool of time.

To be sure many of these time-poor individuals who are resource-rich are buying time to be busy at that which made them resource-rich in the first place, and those who are time-wealthy cannot use their time to acquire resources for whatever reason. For most of us, though, we do have some measure of control over how we spend those 86,400 pennies. Sometimes you must put a real number, a real value on your time.

This weekend I attended a meeting of a very special professional group that includes some of my very closest professional friends. It meant time away from my practice, time that produces on average some $1000/hour of revenue when you look at all of my activities (note: this is revenue to the practice that mostly goes to overhead, sadly not income to me!). Our meeting was generously supported by some 16 companies that do business in my space, companies for whom many of us consult. One of our guest speakers pointed out that the government has decreed that consultants in healthcare cannot be paid more than $500/hour (though most make much, much less than that), an arbitrary number when you are talking about a physician who might generate $5000/hour (think neurosurgeon). Still, it is possible to “price” time for almost anyone. Heck, your favorite hospital administrator or health insurance CEO would like you to think that they are a bargain at ~$1500-$3000/hour because they, and they alone are responsible for the aggregate revenue (~$10-$100MM/hour) of their institution!

In reality our time is much less expensive in dollar terms but much more expensive and valuable in, well, life terms. My real responsibilities at this meeting ended around 6:30 Friday evening. But these are my people; this is my professional “tribe”. I chose to spend the evening with them, and they with me. Doing so meant another night at the hotel so I shaved some pennies off of my expenses by booking a flight home the following evening at 8 (the meeting was completely done at noon on Saturday), something I instantly regretted the minute I got on my outbound flight. What did I do about that? I found an earlier flight at 4 and “bought” myself 4 more hours with my darling wife for $50/hour.

A bargain, at least for me.

So why stay at all on Friday night you might ask? Well, everyone around you is also making the exact same kind of decisions about their time. Most of my friends chose to spend Friday night together out to dinner just down the street from our hotel. Not only that but at least a couple of them spent a few of their collective pennies playing a joke on me. I didn’t even notice that all 60 or so of them in the restaurant had gathered around the table where I sat as the waiter brought a “Happy 70th Birthday” cake, complete with candle and a whole restaurant serenading me! The fact that I am 58 and my birthday is in January is irrelevant. My friends spent their “pennies” to make me laugh.

There are 86,400 seconds deposited in your account each day until the day when they’re not. Each one of us gets to decide, at least some of the time, how much each one of those seconds is worth and how we will spend them. Sometimes, like my first 70th Birthday Party, those seconds are the perfect gift.

Each in its own way priceless.



Sunday musings…

Sunday musings…

1) 41. George Herbert Walker Bush, patriot. RIP.

2) C8. The next version of the Corvette will no longer have the engine up front, thus ending the prominent proboscis  responsible in part for the iconic look.

Count my vote as “unlikely” for any new mid-engine design making middle-aged men look any less ridiculous driving one.

3) Tree. Why is decorating your Christmas tree called “trimming” the tree? Anybody?

The more stuff we put on ours the less “trim” is looks. Just saying…

4) Nexus. Readers of my drivel are aware of my fitness tracker…ahem…problem. I’m pretty sure I’ve tried and eventually abandoned no fewer than a dozen of the so-called “wearables” in my quest to record some actionable measurement of my exercise. I’ve been through simple steps trackers (not useful at all in my not humble at all opinion), HR monitors (reasonably useful as a marker of relative intensity), and instruments that measure HR variability (likely a useful measurement of both “stress” and recovery). (As an aside, measuring PO2 is pretty cool, but probably only useful if you are exercising at altitude.) While they all represent pretty cool tech, not a one of them is really useful when it comes to measuring the things that I think are meaningful when we discuss real fitness: work and power.

And not for nothing, none of them is anywhere near as much fun as my first ever tracker, the late and (at least for me) much lamented Nike Fuel Band.

But I think I’m onto something real. Big-time sports programs of all sorts have found it valuable to measure power and acceleration, and a company called “Push” has been supplying an instrument that can measure both. A couple of years ago folks in the fitness world started asking them if their tracker could be used to measure work done during a something like a WOD. After 2 years of fine-tuning the movement acquisition capabilities of their tracker and the sophistication of their algorithms I think we may finally have a gadget that measures your workout. I had great hopes for the Biostrap but gave up after finding it nearly impossible for it to recognize movements. The Nexus package of tracker and app are worth exploring.

Once again I am drawn back…

5) Three. Number of funerals we had this weekend. We were one wedding short of some kind of anti-RomCom (neither Andie Mcdowell nor Hugh Grant made an appearance). A beloved coach, a beloved peer, and a beloved mother (in-law) were all memorialized. We could only attend one, but I’ve been in touch with friends who made it to the others. All three were similar in that everyone seems to have taken my friend Bill the Surgeon’s advice and made their peace with the departed. This left us all with only our memories of the love we shared with our coach, our friend, and Beth’s Mom.

I’ve written this before, but on such a weekend it bears repeating. One should say 4 things often and with ease, not only in the course of completing a life’s work or concluding a life’s relationships, but in the course of living a life:
Please forgive me.
I forgive you.
Thank you.
I love you.

Sounds simple, huh? Maybe even a little trite, but none these is easy to say. Each one of those little phrases is a bit of a minefield, laden with a hidden meaning and a back story, each one the mid-point in a little journey with a “before” you know, and an after you can’t predict. There’s a little risk in that “after”, and that’s why those 4 little phrases aren’t really all that simple. Why considering this is not at all trivial. All 4 or those little phrases make you look outward, look at another, and in so looking they force you to put yourself at the mercy of that other.

With so many farewells I’ve spent a lot of this weekend thinking about those 4 essential things and about how they fit into a life. We are, each of us, part of a tiny little ecosystem; thinking about using these phrases encourages us to look outward and see the others in our own worlds. Saying them let’s us follow the guidance of Bill, shared most recently and succinctly in a note last week: “Say it now, for we know not when.” It was heartwarming to hear our friends and family so openly expressing not only their love for the three cherished ones we’d lost, but also to and for each other.

Please forgive me.
I forgive you.
Thank you.
I love you.

It’s been a long couple of years and I’m ready to stop thinking about death and dying for a while.

I’ll see you next week…


As You Approach Orphanhood

Sadly, I have had numerous opportunities over the last year or so to note that there is not a single language on earth that has a word or name for a parent who has lost a child. Words exist to describe a surviving spouse, and of course we have a word in most languages for a child without parents: orphan. The word conjures up Dickensonian images of waifs and wastrels in varying degrees of distress and underdress, under-fed and unloved. In reality, despite the ubiquity of this stereotype, there are many, many ways that one becomes an orphan. Indeed, in a proper order of events, each of us will be orphaned by the loss of a second parent.

It is somewhat amazing to me how many people have lost a parent early in life through abandonment. A mother or a father simply ups and leaves. No forwarding address or email, just gone forever. It hurts just to type those words. What must it feel like to leave them, your children? I can’t imagine. Still others lose a parent for years on end before that parent actually dies. Mental illnesses of all sorts, most commonly the various types of dementia, essentially wipe a loved one’s personhood off the planet long before the empty shell passes on. It’s a rather cruel joke, that, to see what looks like your Mom or Dad sitting across from you like some kind of reasonable facsimile, an avatar perhaps, but not really Mom or Dad. Mourning begins years or decades before anyone sits Shiva.

In the end, though, orphanhood comes for us all, in one way or another. My friend Bill, the surgeon, expresses surprise and a sense of something that is a bit more than frustration, though slightly less than anger, at what he calls the “final reckoning” deathbed visit. Why, he so often wonders, do so many people, so many sons and daughters, feel the need to achieve some sort of closure, some sort of final peace in the last waning hours of a life? Mind you, this is a man who practices “live and death” medicine; his point, forged so close to the fire, ought not be missed.

Mothers and fathers are no more or less flawed than any other humans. For most of us their flaws lie cloaked behind the curtains of devotion in our childhood. As we ourselves age, certainly if we become parents, those curtains part and we begin to see more of the whole person who makes up Mom or Dad. Blessed are we who find more to like and love behind those curtains. One hopes at worst that what we find does not dim the glow of childhood memory. Bill’s point, or at least what I think he is saying, is that we should know that orphanhood is inevitable. There is nothing that you can say or do on death’s doorstep that cannot be said or done long before you approach the threshold of your own orphan status. Bill would say that closure is important, that he understands and supports the compulsion to make sure that your parents know that you love them. It’s just the timing he’s wondering about.

Why wait until the cusp of orphanhood? Why not discharge regrets and express your love and gratitude when you and Mom and Dad might still have time to enjoy what comes next? Together.

Sunday musings 11/25/18

Sunday musings…

What are you afraid of? Alex Honnold, the climber and subject of the thrilling documentary “Free Solo”, feels that most people are afraid of what others think of them. That a lack of, or a loss of social standing is the prevailing greatest fear among those living in developed society. Honnold’s feat in the documentary is to climb Yosemite’s El Capitain without any equipment at all, not even a safety rope. His definition of fear makes perfect sense in that context: fear should involve some sort of real danger.

One should be aware of the peculiar nature of individuals who do things like climb mountains, with or without the use of safety measures. They tend toward a more inward view, taking their own pulse as it were rather than seeking to have a take on the pulse of others. As an aside it always amazes me that they marry, more so that some of them remain married. The fear of which Honnold speaks is as much fuel to them as a pack of gel squeezed between the teeth at mile 20 in a road race. They simply need it in order to move.

Must we who do not willingly partake in life-threatening activity adopt such a stark approach to fear? Is it trivial, or are we trafficking in the trivial, if we are fearful of that which may not necessarily take our lives? Yes and no, I think. Rare is the opportunity for the majority of us to be in a place at a time when we truly fear for our lives. Most often is the case that it will be an illness that brings us there; fear in this case has as much to do with the utter lack of control over our fate when illness strikes. We simply do not have the need to fear for our lives; we do not need to address real danger.

Fear of failure is the common thread that links the Honnolds of the world with you and me. Sometimes that failure puts us in a position where we might feel judged. We may find a lesson here if we look through the eyes of a man who will succeed or fail based on how well he maintains contact with little more than finger or toe tips: it is the failure that we might reasonably fear and not what others might think of that failure.

Not every failure needs to be feared. Our reality is different from that encountered on the side of the mountain. Some failures are necessary, nothing more than a part of a process that results in ultimate success. What I will take from Honnold’s conjecture on fear is that it is I who decides which of my endeavors is important enough that I might let fear into the equation when the possibility of failure is considered. But I do think that Honnold is right to dismiss (most of) the fear of what others think of us. It’s OK to care, but it’s more than OK not to allow that caring to rise to the level of fear.

While others may opine on my particular adventure, if the adventure is grand enough I need not be afraid of what they think of either my adventure or of me.

I’ll see you next week…




For pretty much my entire adult life I have tried very hard to live by one of the core tenets of Taoism: the man who knows when enough is enough will always have enough. Through times both thicker and thinner, the more closely I’ve been able to hue to the intent here the happier I’ve been. Today, Thanksgiving Day 2018, I’ve come upon a companion piece that may very well bookend a philosophy for life.

“Gratitude turns what we have into enough.” (HT Mrs. Bill Livingston)

Enough is a truly powerful thing. Enough is the portal to satisfaction, if not happiness. Enough is the antidote to yearning, to wanting. Once you have enough there is no reason to covet. After enough anything else is a bonus, life’s equivalent of that overflowing Holiday cornucopia. Gratitude is a straight shot to enough. On this Thanksgiving Day I am grateful for all that I have, for as long as I have had it.

For a life where for so very long enough has been enough.

Sunday musings 11/18/18

Sunday musings…

1) Bubble. Economists and central bankers are ever on the alert for an economic “bubble”. I’m declaring that we are about to have one pop. Any time you see a dozen ads for really expensive watches in a single magazine on a Sunday you’re headed for a dip in the economy.

You heard it here first.

2) Allowance. Today’s NYT has a section on money. Like the whole paper somehow isn’t about money, but anyway. There’s an article on using an app to deposit your kid’s allowance in their bank account. Seriously. That’s as stupid as the prohibition on teaching kids script writing.

A child should know what money looks like. What it feels like.

3) Head. As in head shots. As in how long is it going to be before real action is taken in ALL sports to make shots to the head such an onerous occurrence that they are essentially legislated out by the players themselves. Case in point: brawls in professional hockey and fighting in amateur hockey. If you are the so-called “third man in” when a fight breaks out in the NHL you are ejected and suspended for a game. Same thing for any fighters in amateur hockey, at least low-level juniors, youth, and high school hockey.

Ken Dryden takes the NHL commissioner Gary Bettman to task for his failure to adequately care for either the retired players who suffer the consequences of prior head injuries or present players at risk. Yesterday’s Michigan/Indiana game ended shortly after Berkely Edwards was pithed by an Indiana player and carted off the field with at least a concussion. It was nauseating. I’ve been similarly affected watching literally any men’s lacrosse game at any level, up to an including the NCAA (I admit to never watching a pro game). Every quarter finds at least one miscreant taking a stick or a body part and applying it to the squash of some opponent, almost always with little or no consequence.

Summary ejection with the likelihood of suspension for shots to the head will result in an evolutionary change in every helmet sport that will lead to fewer athletes suffering from brain injuries. Full stop.

4) Threes. They say that bad things come in threes. Crazy cases in an ER. Complications in an OR. Death. Once you’ve had that third one you are in the clear, at least for a while, at least until the next first one. Man, I sure hope that’s true. It’s been a really tough week around Casa Blanco. I/We lost a beloved pet, coach, and mother (in-law), all in the last week. So. Much. Death. I, we, are all ready for it to end, at least for a bit.

Everyone and everything dies, right? I get that. Even that radioisotope spinning out all manner of death rays eventually sputters to a nuclear silence, however many millions of years it may take; that’s just math. It’s quite a bit more poetic, however sorrowful, when we lose the living. They leave behind stories. If we are lucky, they leave behind love.

As I get older I find it harder not to cry when I am sad. Sometimes it’s a quiet moment and a few lonely tears. Others it’s what I just heard described as “crying ugly”, wracked by sobs that come in waves as uncontrollable as the tides. At times like this week it seems like an OK thing to do. Like it would be somehow strange not to cry. Normal. Other times seem weird even to me, like when I cried at the end of “La La Land” because the couple that SHOULD have made it as a couple didn’t. (As an aside, I hate that, when the writer pulls tragedy out of what should have been a happy ending).

I’m OK right now, OK this morning. Probably mostly cried out I guess. I’m on to the memory stage, that time when, if we are lucky enough, we remember the love. The love that my mother-in-law had for her husband, her three girls and their husbands, and as we are discovering the hundreds of students who attended her alternative school. The love that my coach had for me and countless other young men, expressed in my case after I no longer played for him yet it was still he who swooped in and offered the counsel a young knucklehead needed to grow up out of knuckleheadness. And the love that my goofy little mutt gave us every minute of his goofy little life.

No message here today my friends. Just a little sadness that is being lifted by memories of love, hoping that our third loss means we get a bit of a break. A little hope for you, if you have lost, for the warm embrace of similar memories of the times when you, too, were loved.

I’ll see you next week…


Faith in One Another

“…for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and  me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” –George Elliot* (HT to my friend Bruce K.)

We in the U.S. have been bombarded of late with missives that declare that we are living in “historic times”, that we have a “historic opportunity” to participate in an election that will “determine our fate as a country in historic ways.” But is that really so? Are we truly at an altogether unique inflection point, one so different from all that have come before that our fate, our daily experiences to come will be affected in ways that we cannot miss or ignore? Or is this particular upcoming election simply the next in an unbroken series of political or governing evolutionary steps that has been unbroken since the end of the Civil War? Is the excitement and the drama simply an extension of the “Techquake” and its always on firehose of information?

Seriously now, if you are one who is on your soapbox (facing in either direction), are you really telling us that Election Day is going to change our nation to a greater degree than the one that brought us 4 years of LBJ and the Great Society?

As a people the citizens of the developed world have been swept along in the great rivers of effluent poured forth from that firehose of information that was spawned by the internet. Have we forgotten the accuracy and truthfulness of Elliot’s words? If so is it because we simply cannot get even a single pupil above the torrent of information to see what he saw? Or is it more that we have lost the ability to paddle even the tiny amount necessary to do so? No matter, the result is the same.

Literary fiction is taught as the study of quiet acts of desperation and the fall-out that follows. Life, on the other hand, is made up of quiet acts made out of sight of nearly everyone. Anonymous acts carried out with neither malice nor benevolence. These are what constitute the reality of life. It seems to me that at least a (very loud) portion of our people have lost the appreciation of this reality. For them each act is either an affront or a tiny step toward canonization. I do not believe they are correct. Elliot is only wrong in that he underestimates his object; that  things are not so ill with you and me, is not half but mostly owing to those who lived that faithful life.

To what, then, is this anonymous majority faithful? This is quite simple, and because this is so it is all the more painful that it must be pointed out: they are faithful to one another. They live lives that are faithful to the belief that it is another person with whom they are living, not an opinion or a belief. This anonymous mass lives lives that are intertwined with other people, not other opinions. When they look to their left or to their right what they see is not a position or a platform, but a person. It is this, the acknowledgement that we are surrounded first by other people, that leads to salvation in this life.

You are surrounded by people who are faithfully living quiet lives, anonymous to all but a handful of others, whose lives will be remembered by even fewer, if at all. Unbeknownst to one another they likely crossed paths with someone with whom they would find little common ground in belief, someone who is close to you, about whom you care very much. Despite this lack of commonality the crossing was uneventful. It was peaceful. On balance it was marked by quiet goodwill, if it was marked at all. It was a moment that will have passed directly into an unvisited “tomb” in the memory of each of these individuals.

And yet it was that quiet faithfulness that behind whatever disagreement might exist between the two there lived much more than another opinion or belief. There lived another person. Another person living a life largely unnoticed, hopefully a quiet one with less desperation than more, on their way to an end noticed by few and mourned by fewer still. Lives that were lived in the faith that there exists much, much more good in others than not.

A faith that we, the living, must endeavor to keep.


*George Elliot is the pseudonym of a woman. In order to write and be read she felt the need to write as a man. That most women who write today can do so using their own name is “unhistoric” is yet another indication of how wonderful are our times.

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