Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Sweden and NYC

There is a routine that I have developed over the past several years when traveling. It usually involves getting up early and working out, then a shower and change, then find a Starbucks or Panera. For some reason having a routine sort gives me a sense of orderliness in the midst of my travel which usually is a mildly controlled chaos. It is a comfort to me that I know what I am doing next when I first get up when on the road.

This morning I had set my alarm for my usual 5:30 intending to hit the fitness center. At 5:25 I realize there is a pretty monotonous pounding that I can't get out of my head. The longer I listened the more it sounded like someone hitting a pretty good pace on the treadmill. Inspired by someone else's discipline (and afraid the fitness center would be full) I pulled on my workout stuff, stretched the old muscles in legs and back, and headed out to find the fitness center. It didn't take me long, it was directly under my room, thus the pounding. There was a young man on the treadmill apparently trying to run a record marathon. I chose the elliptical as far away from him as possible. I had set my nice 3.5 mile pace on the machine when all of sudden the place filled up with dad, 2 pre-teen daughters, and 1 teenage son. It was all I could do to stay on track and pace because they all sounded like the Swedish Chef, one of my all time favorites (perhaps only eclipsed by Dr. Bunsen Honeydue and Beaker) Only in NYC can you get this kind of language soup. The more they talked the more I got tickled about how they sounded. I know it is a bit ironic that someone with my West Texas twang gets to laugh at anyone else, but I have never valued consistency. Then the longer I listened I realized the Mr. Chef was doing most of  the talking. Apparently the little Chefs were well into the teen, sullen years and it was only 6AM. By the way, Mrs. Chef was nowhere to be seen. I guess Mr. Chef knows who he can coerce into the fitness center at 6:30AM and who he can't.

I was still laughing about the Chef's when I decided to trek down 49th St to a Starbucks and realized along the way that there are a lot of people in the City who have dogs. A couple of them sort of snarled at each other (dogs not the people) and the Korean/Chinese/Thai owner of one of the dogs really lit into her dog. All this made me wonder if dogs learn the language of their owners. Does an English sheepdog have trouble learning Chinese? Can an Irish setter ever feel at home with a Somalian family? Do you think when the Irish setter finally finds a home with the McNeils he breathes a sigh of relief? Do you think a Chihuahua pup will look at his Swedish owners and say to himself, "What the ...?"

I finally get to the Starbucks, get my yogurt, my Grande, and my pastry (yes, I earned a pastry with the workout with the marathoner) and sat looking out the window at all the New Yorkers hurrying to work and realized while I was sitting there that I heard at least 4 different languages in the space of 30 minutes. It made me realize that the one of the reasons people seem to love NYC is the very diversity that makes others uncomfortable. It makes me wish I had a better feel for languages (beyond Texan.) Their lives are different, their language is different, their worldview is probably different. But at the core we all desire family and belonging, a place in the world, a purpose, whether these are expressed in English or Chinese or Swedish, or Urdu. We want our spot to be unique and fitting.

Godspeed to the Chef family, you made me laugh and long for home.
Don

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Troublesome News

There are rest stops on this journey where we can pause and look around and assess what has happened and what to anticipate. It seems to me that these rest stops can be in our late teen years, mid-twenties, etc. And along with these stops there is a scale at work, where we load up the good news with the bad news see how balanced the news happens to be at that particular stop. If the scale tilts towards the "good" news side, then we sling our packs onto our backs with a smile that anticipates the future and a soft whistle on our lips.

Somewhere around 50 we begin to see the scale tilt a little towards the "sad" news. Generally the news when we are in our teens/20/30/40s is almost always good. Graduation announcements, wedding invitations, baby due dates, first jobs, better jobs, new homes, new friends and all the other "blessings" seem to flow, rippling through our lives in an almost endless stream. It is the preponderance of good and exciting news that lulls us into believing that this wellspring of good news will last forever.

Then as we enter the second half the aquifer of good news seems to drop. The wellspring we have counted on all these years seems to lower a bit and the flow seems a bit slower. At this point in our lives we realize that phone calls from old friends are much more likely to carry news that they couldn't hold it together any longer, that they are shredding decades of marriage and moving on. Or the news that the doctor's visit took an ominous turn, the little lumps and bumps are suddenly the big C.
And there is always the news that the surviving parent is not remembering things from everyday life. They can't remember where they put things, or what exit to take, or people's names. Of course the diagnosis is bad, diabetes, or heart stints, or, or, or.

All of this trumped by the phone call that unexpectedly the sand ran out. We are left trying to grasp the impact of loss. Why didn't I call a few weeks ago like I was going to? Why didn't I get in the car and go visit? Why?Why?Why? We are left examining our own thoughtlessness (not neglect, but the fact we hadn't THOUGHT of them in quite some time) The news continues to flow in, but now instead of joy and gratitude, it brings sadness and guilt and dimming of the future. The phone now becomes our necessary evil. We must know, but we hate the knowledge.

So at this new rest stop do we handle the news? First of all I think we rejoice when we do get a sip of the cool, fresh "good" news left in the spring. Even though grand kid announcements and such are not our news, they fill our days with hope.We embrace the news from the generations trailing along behind us and pull from our packs the old (almost forgotten) shouts of joy we experienced all those years ago when the news was good and belonged to us. We do not begrudge the younger folks their news or their joy.
Secondly, we revel in the memories of our own joys. There is nothing wrong with pulling out an old memory and turning this way and that and letting the warmth sneak through us. Finally, we live moving forward. The journey continues up the trail. When faced with unbidden news we set our faces forward and continue on, wrapping our arms around those most affected by the news. The finish to the journey is drawing into sight. This is the news that faces all of us. So we continue to move forward. For those of us with a cosmic view, the last bit of news is this. The welcome party really doesn't start until we get there.

Godspeed, perhaps the news scale will balance in the entirety of the journey. I don't know. But the scale in my life is still leaning towards the good. For that I am thankful.
Don