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December 25, 2024 · 1:55 pm

Introduction

Act I: Daily Life

[edit]

The Stage Manager introduces the audience to the small town of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, its geography and main buildings and institutions, as well as the people living there, as morning breaks on May 7, 1901. Joe Crowell delivers the paper to Doc Gibbs, Howie Newsome delivers the milk, and the Webb and Gibbs households send their children (Emily and Wally Webb, George and Rebecca Gibbs) off to school on this beautifully simple morning.

So begins Our Town, by Thornton Wilder published in the early 1930’s.

Underneath a glowing full moon, Act I ends with George and Emily gazing out of their respective bedroom windows, enjoying the smell of heliotrope in the “wonderful (or terrible) moonlight,” with the self-discovery that they like each other, very much and the realization that they are both straining to grow up in their own way. Later as Emily and George are now teenagers; Emily reflects on life and her small town :

“Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it every, every minute?

CHRISTMAS 2004~ a year of magical thinking

The last post was last summer. Janis died on March 15th at 1:15 pm These last ten months have been a fake-it-or-make-it time—and still are.

Grief is an amazing, cogent, and challenging state to be in. But, I’m aware that everybody has experienced it in life and as strange as it is, it is that insight that has helped keep me going. It has helped me but it hasn’t cured it. I’ve come to understand another truth that others have discovered: it is now the way the rest of my life will function, with this loss always in the background. Everything, everything, is a reminder. I have connected with friends from my hometown first grade class, some who have breakfast with me once a month for the past 10 years, and reunited friends some who I had not seen for almost 50 years. I’ve done some traveling. Trips to Virginia to visit my daughter and husband. I Spent time in Old Quebec City last summer where Janis and I spent summer vacations for many years, thanks to our our friends, Claire and Suzanne. (This was a major grief breakthrough for me.) I attended with my daughter Stacia and my grandson, Rob. Claire and Suzanne were young counselors at Camp Pesky with me from 1974 – 1984.

I could easily slip into a bah-humbug slump this Christmas. Get drunk. Sit in front of numbing videos on streaming television and go to bed whenever I damn well choose. And get up at noon. But NO! I have magic that keeps snapping me out of it. Grandchildren. Rob, Madeline, Brin, Cam (I’ve learned from my youngest, Cam. 4y.o. granddaughter how to dance to Taylor Swift’s songs.) It’s hysterical, and a hell of a workout. She keeps stopping me when I don’t do it right shows me how and we resume, my antics seem to bother her, she laughs.

One of the things that separates us from amoebas (as far as we know), is emotions. I doubt that they have a frontal cortex-amoebas. But we can understand and respect that being human comes with the acceptance that we are among other creatures that have emotional lives and we should be damn well appreciative of this. I know this raises all kinds of discussions (do snakes have emotions? do houseflies? And why is it so difficult to catch/swat a stupid fly?) do dragons….

But, I digress.

Today is a cold but sunny day. I’m thankful there is no wind. Living on the coast of Maine is a treasure that I’m grateful for everyday. Except for winter. It’s a windy kind of cold coming off the ocean. Janis and I moved to Harpswell after my retirement in 2004. I took a position at Bowdoin College, no, not a professor, I was Supervisor of Security at the College Museum of Art for almost a decade. It was a significant education in the arts. Janis encouraged me to apply. It was another decade in a very different profession. Janis loved being on the coast. She loved lobster. When we were teenagers dating, I took her with me and my parents to Orrs Island, and she had her first taste of seafood. Lobster. clams, corn on the cob. A feast we repeated for a few summers. My aunt and uncle had a summer property on the Island. This turned out to be just a few miles from where we later retired to in Harpswell.

We did not notice she was in decline. In hindsight I see a lot of evidence that we missed. That I missed. I have deep regret for that. I do find some solace in knowing that we were together for over 60+ years; in later years with frequent visits, for hours, after she was placed in care, and I held her hand the day she died speaking into her ear? “I love you.”

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June 9, 2024 · 3:56 pm

REDBIRD

Moving us through a mist

a foam

looking over at you

How did you do this

smile gentle beauty of youth

twice

sunny warmth a look

stay keep us here

keep us here 

now

awake

on a branch silence

red bird alone

watches from a distance

a safe distance

red against wet green 

a drizzle soft quiet

cool summer morning

blink

alone.   

                         rwc 2024
Face Book ~ Maine Novels by Robert Chapman

www.robertwchapman.com

robertchapmanblog.com

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Face Book ~ Maine Novels

 by Robert Chapman

www.robertwchapman.com

robertchapmanblog.com

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April 29, 2024 · 5:52 pm

TO BE

I’ll walk with you to the end, the least I can do for my friend, and after we reach the end I’ll be waiting for you again.

~rwc

On Friday, March 15, 2024 at 1:15 pm Janis died.

We had a graveside service. (Later in April we had, what has become known as a celebration of life, at the Legion Hall in our hometown of Mechanic Falls. The turnout was overwhelming), It was a bright day at the graveside, but windy. Very windy. I arranged for a Buddhist service, not because I belong to any particular religion, but because I find Zen Buddhist psychology a more reasonable and palatable way of life. A way of acknowledging our human existence…and death. Janis also subscribed to this as an acceptable way of believing or at least, accepting, the life that she was given.

Basho, a 17th century Japanese poet, offered this invitation to see, that some have lived and struggled through a different life than we may have had: “Come, see real flowers of this painful world.” A while ago, I ran across another use of this metaphor of a flower in a poem by William Carlos Williams, “Saxifrage is my flower that splits rocks.” Of course, I had to look up the word saxifrage; it’s Latin meaning, breaking rocks. That felt more like Janis. She floundered through a grim childhood and worked every day to stay afloat. Most did not see that side, that ‘darkness visible’, but I did. She was that flower who split rocks her entire life, sometimes just to get up in the morning. Someone said, getting up in the morning not to push the rock over the top of the hill, but just to push the rock up the hill. My role was to be… Just to be. Not a martyr but a friend, a human being who would not abandon her. The humane thing to do. Besides, I love breaking rules. There is nothing martyr about that! It was a choice I made. It is my koan for life. And I can be a stubborn bastard when it feels like the right thing to do. (Well…yeah, usually. That is, on my good days; mostly. Sometimes. Usually around lunchtime. In the morning; or sometimes late afternoon, um, sometimes before bedtime…).

In life there is pain but there is also love and hope.

Today I’m still working at acceptance. Acceptance that I can’t jump in my car and go to her unit to visit her, hold her hand. Acceptance that though I’m surrounded by friends and family (especially my grandchildren), I still feel alone. There’s a hole in my life now. That so-called self-sacrificing role is exposed as a sneaky two-way street. I was getting so much from my visits with Janis in her Unit for the past few years–indeed, for my life, that I’m coming to understand that this new now is the rest of my life. Whatever happens next, it will be without her here. I can do this. In fact, I am doing it. My plan is to be the best-damned grampa I can be. Every child deserves a grandparent! And though I do totter a bit more these days, I’m fortunate to be in pretty good health. My days, and nights, are improving. I’m able to take my grandchildren on walks (my grandkids tolerate my blabberings “Be careful!” and that old standard grandkids just love to hear, “What?”). I see friends regularly for coffee and monthly breakfast with our OFBC . (You know who you are). My adult children are checking in on me regularly.

All is well.

I’m getting back to writing. It grounds me in ways that nothing else comes close to in providing some avenue for my introverted solitude. This blog has been neglected for months, or longer. And the novel I had started has been on hold, the character’s frozen in time, waiting to find out what they will become and where they will go. Stephen King cautioned that letting your characters linger, leaves them to become cardboard-like. I haven’t reached that point…yet. But it’s time to get back to them. (Scroll down, all the way down).

keep going

The sun is out. I’m on call to pick up Cam at her daycare this afternoon and meet Brin for the school bus later. I’m on my third cup of coffee (which I just discovered was lukewarm, yuck) and getting ready to make lunch for myself. Beans I think. Yes, canned. I’m disinclined to cook meals.

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March 19, 2023 · 6:47 pm

HOW TO FIX THIS MESS

Robert Frost said something like, all of life is a metaphor. Doesn’t help when trying to come up with a topic for this blog, too much to choose from. I’ve spent my entire adult life since leaving the military working with families and children. In retirement, I continue this work through my writings and books. I never planned to be a social worker. In fact, it was the last thing I expected to do.

If I were able to describe my surprise when I discovered, that was who and what I was, I’m not certain I could tell you. It might not be the thing that I do best, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it is the best thing I do. It turns out that I have spent a career watching out for children. Again – not the thing I did best, but I like to think that it has been, and is, the best way I could’ve spent my time. I’m a grandfather now and I can report to you that it is all it is cracked up to be. I am humbled, thrilled, and so proud that it is embarrassing, except it isn’t. Even writing this down I get butterflies thinking of them. Flip-side of this is that once you are a parent you are a parent for life. I worry about my grandchildren just a bit more than their parents do. My perspective has changed. I see every pothole in the road as a threat to each of them.

What would you think if I told you that most of the world’s problems can be solved? I’m going to launch this entry into my ideas about child abuse and the details may sometimes be, as the kids say- boring, but in this matter, the ends may justify the means.  I have come to recognize all children as bright, joyous creatures that should be cherished and respected for all that they are and for all that they will be encountering in life. We, as a species, through all cultures, have spent centuries ignoring or turning our heads when it came to the abuse of children. We know it, we think we see it, understand it, we pass laws and admonish, and sometimes even prosecute abusers in court. All to no avail. What many have not understood is that it is not just a matter of individual rights. Or parental rights. The truth is it has a crucial role in the diminishing of the social and economic advancement of our species. Someone said, “The measure of a species’ dignity is in how they treat their young.”

Do I have a simple answer? Of course not. But I’m convinced that I have an answer that addresses a fundamental truth of why the world is so violent. I’m not naive, and I know there are many wonderful and amazing things that life gives us. However, there is a puzzling force in life that leads to shocking and inexplicable violence, and mass shootings of people – of children! (What the hell is that about?)  I’m not going to recite all the violent episodes in life, but you get the picture. War is the most unbelievable, and for lack of a better word…stupid example. When a child is killed a manifestation of pure joy in the universe has been extinguished. And when a child is assaulted, even in minor ways, the assault has an impact on the child’s developing nervous system (see Behave, Robert M. Sapolsky Ph.D., Penguin, 2017).  

If asked what to do about it I get as overwhelmed as anyone else. But the clearest I can come to a response based on my own experience is three-fold: 1. Change the world one child at a time. 2. Be profoundly aware of the politics around child welfare issues and vote accordingly. Children are the priority. 3. Be kind to all kids regardless of your involvement. Children are shaped in big ways by even the smallest interaction we might have with them. You can never know the impact (even one interaction) your kindness may have on them. I have many examples of this, but I’ll mention one. I received a call while working at a summer camp as a social group worker, from a mother whose young son had spent a two-week session at camp. Later, at home, he was killed in an accident involving climbing a tree to get to his kite. The mother asked if I could reach a counselor that her son met at camp one summer. This counselor had left such a strong impression that her son always spoke of him. She wanted to reach him to be a pallbearer at her son’s funeral. As one of the administrators at the main office, I was able to track him down. The boy lived in Lewiston, Maine. I found the counselor, Don, living in California. I told Don about the mother’s request and how the two weeks he had spent at camp with her son in a cabin of rambunctious preteen boys, had influenced her son, and how Don had taught her son so much about being respectful and humane to others. And she was hoping he could be located and maybe participate in burying her boy as a pallbearer. Don was shocked! He and I spoke on the phone briefly. He told me he knew who the boy was but didn’t really recall any special attention other than one of ten rowdy boys he and another counselor had that summer for two weeks. There were four sessions, two weeks each – and a lot of kids. He dropped his life in CA for a trip back to Maine and carried the boy’s casket at the funeral. He left then to return to California. The mother called me later and thanked me for finding Don. Think of all the people that boy met in his life…Don had him for two weeks and made a lasting impression on not only that boy, but his mother and family.  And on me.

I have three adult children. I believe I am a good dad, not perfect, but good. I don’t expect parents to be perfect, I aspired to be a good parent in the hopes that life would find that good is good enough. But, as a grandparent(I have four) I confess that in my life-long experience with children, my own, and all the hundreds/thousands of kids I have come across, well I’m afraid good is not good enough. We must as concerned adults, find that fine line between good and perfect and aspire to the perfect, hoping to score at least a B+ in the process. Our kids will be okay if we can show the effort. They’ll be okay. We, not only as parents but as adults should be aware that kids are shaped by the respect we show them. Compassion and firmness when required. Role models for being, like Don, respectful and humane to others. 

“If we are to have real peace, we must begin with the children.” ~Gandhi
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December 26, 2022 · 2:15 pm

PAINTED PONIES

William Carlos Williams has been a favorite of mine since high school. I confess I didn’t always appreciate his poetry, but it appealed to something in me. Later, as a young adult, I realized that much of his poetry had a flavor of Zen. That brought me back to rediscovering his writing and a fresh understanding of his use of words and metaphors.

A few days ago my oldest daughter contacted me (she just lives a mile away, but insists on texting. Another introvert, like her dad) and asked me if I had heard of Williams. Of course, I jumped right on it.

One of my favorites of his:

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

William Carlos Williams, “The Red Wheelbarrow” from The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Volume I, 1909-1939, edited by Christopher MacGowan. Copyright 1938 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.

The truth? The older I get (now pretty damn old) the more respect I have for Williams’s amazing, almost haiku, way of capturing time, like a photograph. Words. Just words. Yet they are such a treasure when in the hands/mind of a great poet.

I’m writing this blog this morning to express my own need to capture time. As Janis waits for my next visit I am only able to reach my own heart and affection for her while sitting inside this blog.

Here’s another:

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

William Carlos Williams,”This Is Just to Say” from The Collected Poems: Volume I, 1909-1939, copyright ©1938 by New Directions Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

See what I mean? He makes it clear that we must pay attention to every moment and gesture because the day may come when all we will have is words and no one to speak them to. Someone said, “Grief feels like fear, its love – with nowhere to go.” Don’t waste an opportunity to speak in the present the words that you will regret later if you do not speak them today.

Have a good New Year! 2023

Bob~

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August 22, 2021 · 1:18 pm

THE ROOM DOWNSTAIRS

Last night, August 19th was the first booksigning for ENTANGLED. My youngest daughter, Maya, assisted me and brought my 5 yo grand-daughter with her. This was an especially nostalgic event. It took place at my old high school, now the town municipal building. As I mixed and spoke to folks while signing books (busy trying to focus on the signing and get the names spelled right and not mix up their books) I had another of those moments that happen a lot lately: I kept feeling the presence of the young girl in the room downstairs. That’s the classroom where I met Janis more than half a century ago. The room downstairs 2 floors below the library we were in. The room where this petite young girl dropped into my orbit and turned my life into something especial.

Some of the folks who attended that night also went to school here with Janis and me. (Gene, Roger, and Fred.) For a couple of them it was their first time back inside their small high school since graduating in 1964. I tried avoiding the topic of the room downstairs with my old schoolmates, but it demanded my attention and I brought it up to the crowd. I consider that moment in my life to be one profound example of how life has it’s way with us, and changes us in unique ways. Here I was, nearly 75 years old, in the same building where I met Janis, and here were many of our friends and classmates. But, most importantly, here I was with our daughter and our 5 yo grandchild, Brinley who was enthralled (but not sure what all the hullabaloo was all about) with the whole affair and moved quickly into the children’s section where she remained most of her time.

My sisters, Cathi and Sonia attended as usual. And my cousin, Bobby. It always feels good to have my family with me. And many friends! I also heard from a friend I knew from my work in Child Protective Services. Shawn attended the signing from her home in New York via Zoom! What a nice surprise, thanks to Nancy, the librarian. (Holy Crap, I’m on Zoom.) We stay in touch through Facebook. Also attending were friends who were staff at the summer camp segment of the year-round camping program, these people, one of them a former camper, are the kind of folks any parent would be proud and happy to have in their children’s life. Camp was character building. One camper wrote on FB that her experience at camp saved her life. And these friends – these staff – are a sample of the character building/child oriented program that hundreds – thousands of children learned from. I’m proud to have them in my life as well. In addition, the surprise of the evening for me was an old friend of my mother’s (Joyce) who ran the Headstart program that I worked in after getting out of the military in 1968. She got me started volunteering in her classroom. I left after that first day high and strangely grateful for the experience. I loved it. And wondered how I could work in this field of early childhood education. Well, I was hired as a teacher and ran my own classroom. This experience sent me off on a life career in services to families and children. Joyce has attended book signings for each of my books. She always shows up. We hugged and talked. She whispered to me, “Bobby, do you know how old I am?” She smiled a big joyful smile that took me back to 1968 in her classroom of 4-5 yo kids, “I’m 94.”

So, later at home, collapsing on my bed, I was flooded with memories, all of them proudful, grateful, and sweet.

And the room downstairs? Well, the entire interior of the old high school has been renovated. Our old classrooms do not exist as they were in my memory. However, in my memory that one room downstairs remains exactly as it was that morning in 1961.

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July 29, 2021 · 9:00 am

POST-ENTANGLED

Now what? Six years into this book project in a dubious effort to somehow express a lifetime and now-it’s done. The book is published and I’m starting this blog today with little idea of where it will take me, except maybe to just start writing something. Entangled was a modest effort at best and difficult to write for a variety of reasons. The initial idea was to be a letter to our children. It took on a life of it’s own when I realized that to convey to our kids the kind of life we (Janis and I) had, it would take a book. I didn’t like that idea; in 2014, I was not in a good state of mind. I was only starting to accept getting older and then tossed into a world of dementia, struggling with guilt and grief losing Janis to a locked unit. I needed to understand all this myself, never mind trying to express it to our kids-it seemed daunting. And that in itself presented obstacles. Would our kids even want that, especially if I decided to go public? What is the point in such an endeavor? How intimate do I dare to be in such a project? I am not a public kind of person. I tend to be private. This changed my outlook on things. (Blogging, for instance.) All of a sudden I felt a need to open this up for my own understanding and maybe in that context it could result in something that others might find, if not interesting, at least addressing some understanding about their own lives, or the life of someone else that they know and love. Annie Dillard wrote: “If we may learn to know, may we not learn to understand?”

Are we just dust in the wind, or is there something else we might be missing? I don’t subscribe to any particular organized religion. I’ve been there, done that. I realized that religions were really ‘a finger pointing at the moon’. I wanted to know that moon they were pointing at-I wanted to know it directly. Religion didn’t respond to my personal search. So at a young age I started to look into many forms of religion that served as a kind of research. I took courses in college related to philosophy and comparative religions and sought out opportunities to be involved in any services that were available to me. I traveled around a little (including while posted overseas in the military) and attended different religious services, read anything I could find, tried out different forms of meditation and settled in my early 20’s on zazen meditation. Zen is not a religion, though it is often viewed as, and associated with Buddhism, Zen is considered more as a tool/method to a way of life, (Shikantaza) and can be attached to any religion, or to none at all.This led to a hobby of sorts in theoretical physics and more recently an interest in the ‘new physics’ and quantum physics that has a comfortable relationship with some of the experiences that came out of my personal quest for a cohesive sense of understanding why we are not just dust in the wind. While writing Entangled I did not plan on getting into my own philosophical quest, but it seemed so much a part of what explained to me this connection of events from my youth up to today that it couldn’t be ignored in Entangled.

I’ve mentioned along the way recently that Janis is my life’s koan. I mean by that that my life has always been about this relationship. Even long before we met. I’m not going to expound on that too much. It’s too complex and is indeed a koan-a paradox, a riddle that defies logic and/or exposes the limits of logical reasoning in understanding the inexplicable. Trying to explain any further than that is not reasonable in this text, and requires some self-study that meditation can assist one with.

So I suppose that beyond promotional stuff I still need to do, Entangled is a closed book.

I’m hoping to get through 2, possibly 3 more books before joining the walker-crowd, wearing Velcro-laced white sneakers, and living on Progresso soup and PBJs. (Wait-except for the walker and the sneakers I’m already halfway there.) I’ve learned from experience that I don’t do well by finishing one book and then jumping too quickly into another. In this case, maybe a little longer given the investment of emotion and time I spent on this one. I’m kind of thinking about another non-fiction work. But, can’t decide what that would be. I am in the early stages of getting A Certain Fall, republished with an additional, added text to the work. I have the rights to the contracted book back and some ideas for adding/updating it. Other projects that I started years ago but left undeveloped are also still interesting to me. One of those has some elements of a work of fiction based on actual events that occurred during my work in the military. I like this idea. The other book I started and still have interest in is a straightforward work of fiction. A novel set in a small fishing community located in coastal Maine. This one would be another attempt at a character-driven novel similar to my earlier effort at this genre in Mother, Night, and Water. I’m looking forward to both of these as possible next projects, and another educational experience/training in writing, especially because I have them both started and moving me into the next phase of their writing. On the other hand, I always enjoy starting fresh. I love the work. But, also now after 4 books, have enough experience that I understand the words: “If your writing comes easy, you’re doing something wrong.”

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June 21, 2021 · 10:02 pm

FORGIVENESS/ACCEPTANCE

(A Precursor to ENTANGLED)

I like words. When I was a boy, maybe 10 yo or so, my mom picked up this huge dictionary. I mean, it was heavy and required its own table to set on. I recall flipping through all the pages in wonder of the number of words I was going to have to learn. Of course, I didn’t. But I was enchanted by this book. And later when I started writing (age 13 yo) I began to think about words, dictionaries; just imagine what I felt like when I discovered a thesaurus. The birth of a dork.

Eventually I began to understand not only that most of my friends, at that age primarily guys, were not as interested in words. But I evolved in my wonder of this new world of words and started using words with an aim to be precise. Or at least I aspired to that end. So when I write now as an experienced, but still a student of the craft of writing, I am a little picky about vocabulary and precision of choosing words with hopefully a little more skill. This is especially true and a challenge in the writing of Entangled .

I was invited into Janis’s therapy at some point because she was missing a lot of the nuances, and recall of her history. So I continued with this therapist after Janis was placed. It started out as an assist with grief, but has now become as much about my understanding of what we went through together as a result of her abusive history, and major mental health issues due to this history, as my grief. Therapy turns out to be a self-exploration and analysis of how this marriage survived. And a new, or renewed, respect for what Janis went through all the years of her life. The therapist told me grief is not a feeling. Huh? Another word to clarify. Or a zen koan?

I avoid absolutes, in general. I look around me and see that extremes nearly always create harmful outcomes. In general. Life has extremes, naturally, but life for the most part runs somewhere down the middle. A lot of compromise goes a long ways toward peace. World peace or just peace between people. The theme of any relationship can be viewed this way. Nations or couples. Friendship or enemies.

Forgiveness or acceptance?

I’m mostly referring here to child victims and the adults they become. Forgiveness is a loaded word. Ask what forgiveness means, and a plethora (I like that word) of scenarios floods my mind. Most of which are firmly entrenched in our cultural and religious traditions. I have no problem with that except when we are trapped with a definition for a problem that does not work. I’m not prone to the idea of free will; like forgiveness, I think there are complex definitions of this idea; biological, genetic and epigenetic, neurological, religious definitions…I find myself stuck.

The word forgiveness is fraught with emotion making it difficult for people to work through when they have been wronged. In my work I found myself struggling with how a child understands that word. Or how his parents understand (i.e. stand-under, or support) an offender who has harmed their child in ways that sometimes are so pernicious and far reaching, that it seems unforgivable, Are we really supposed to forgive? See, I’m stuck. And that’s what this is all about in the book, Entangled. Not if we can forgive, but, can we accept. Do we punish the victim–the child? Of course not. And the perpetrator? Forgive? Tell me what that word means. Who is required to bear responsibility, accountability? What’s the difference between these terms? What happens to the victim as they become adults? Do we then hold them responsible by expecting them to forgive. Or do we choose to look at our own behavior and consider the options we have for this child/adult victim that we love?

I’m responsible for how I respond. That’s it. We are what we have done. We are what we do. That’s as far as I’ve gotten so far in challenging myself to look at the victim who is experiencing life awash with emotion, and instead of responding to the matter with anger, shame, disdain, or passivity, or some other cheap response that exposes its own extreme degrees of outcome, I get to accept responsibility for how I respond. Not expecting or holding the victim responsible for their offender’s assault on them, by asking them to forgive. In the case of assault to a child, we now know the neurological impact on the child’s brain and development. Accept or reject. Not necessarily forgiveness–whatever that really means. What we wish for these adult victims is to ‘move on’, forgive and let go. Because their condition is hurting us, and we want it to stop. We want them to be happy and have a good life, so that we can move on. Have a life. It’s this selfish desire to have things be the way we want them to be that creates this distress for us. Sadly, many of these survivors of abuse are suffering neurological consequences that make them unable to live the life we would hope for them. So what are we left with if we commit to them? What is our responsibility in these circumstances? Understanding all is to forgive all? Discount the victim for not getting over it? (Just snap out of it?)

I can take responsibility for how I respond to the victim–their condition. Accept them–just as they are. To offer unconditional love. Caritas, that term that describes the deep compassion for the other person’s plight, their condition in life. Is the victim responsible for their condition, do we expect them to take responsibility? Or, can we hold them accountable for their behaviors instead. Forgiveness implies the victim’s responsibility for their circumstances; acceptance expresses understanding, but expecting them to be accountable for what they do, not who they are. A word: Love. Overused, vague: We love our cat, we love our cell phone, we love mac and cheese, pizza, beer, sunrises, sunsets, our four-wheeler, our car, our coffee. But I’ll be damned if I can come up with a better word for how I love my children, my grandchildren, my life–my wife. The word Love seems to cover that just fine.

Compassion is not all warm and fuzzy. In fact, in the words of Pema Chodron, it’s actually raw. It challenges us to change. The challenge for us is to remain compassionate.

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May 9, 2021 · 1:32 pm

LYING. (warning: wearing pontificating hat.)

I think most reasonable folks would agree that lying is not a good thing. However, I doubt that any of us have gotten through life without at least telling one lie. Right? I also think that there are exceptions when lying is understood and acceptable. Maybe even kind. For example when someone with dementia asks about their mother or father, family member, or close friend who has died in the past: I recall my father, who died with dementia, asking about one of his friends who was gone. I told him when he asked that his friend had passed away. Dad cried. The next visit he asked how his friend was doing. I hesitated, then told him his friend was getting older but was doing okay. Dad smiled.

Okay. I just lied. The next time Dad asked, I again told him that his friend had passed away, I lied to you because I didn’t want to come across as a smug know-it-all. And also to make my point a little more pertinent: Repeating that interaction over and over again would have gotten the same response from Dad. How do I know this? Because I did repeat it a few more times before I realized how unkind–cruel even–that was for Dad. So…I Iied, and Dad was okay with that. You can see where this would have gone if I had continued to beat him up with the truth.

So, the truth is important not just on important matters, but even on a humane personal level. Except there are exceptions; and when in doubt I suggest err on the side of compassion. But beware the truth will prevail. One way or another it will come back on you, therefore consider your lie carefully, humanely, and with compassion.

We are in a difficult time. Our world as we knew it is standing on its head. And rather than preach about this topic to you I will refer you to a far more credible and eloquent source who’s established himself as a philosopher as well the prominent scientist of our lifetime:

“Lying destroys confidence in the statements of other people. Without such confidence, social cooperation is made impossible or at least difficult. Such cooperation, however, is essential to make human life possible and tolerable. This means that the rule ‘Thou shall not lie’ has been traced back to the demands: ‘Human life shall be preserved.’ and ‘Pain and sorrow shall be lessened as much as possible.’ ” ~Albert Einstein, Out of my Later Years, Philosophical Library, New York, 1950.

I don’t know if aging necessarily leads to some degree of wisdom. Recent events would lead me to believe not. Still, aging to the place of a gray-haired senior does at least allow for (if you’re willing to venture there) evaluating one’s life experiences: good and bad, and drawing some conclusions from your life. In writing Entangled a sort of memoir, I’ve struggled with decisions about what to include and not include, I’ve engaged with a depth of emotions that challenged my judgement to the point that the book almost didn’t get published. It’s been sitting on my laptop awaiting a decision. Leaving stuff out of the book forced me to consider what that meant, is that a form of lying? Who would know? Me. I would know. In the end I’m the one who will have to deal with anything that may not make it into print, but I also know that compassion was my measure. This includes both Janis and myself as well as some other persons, some who will know who they are and will know what was left out. I am not apologetic for the story. I will say that the text as it is written is my honest effort for truth. Whatever I have left out was determined by my compassion for us–Janis and myself and our sincere love for one another, our marriage–I married my friend.

Any extreme is suspect for hurt and danger. Any extreme, even compassion. But, when in doubt err on the side of compassion–caritas, unconditional love and caring will be easier to forgive.

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Filed under dementia, mental health, Uncategorized, Writing

April 29, 2021 · 2:18 pm

Spring at Widgeon Cove

There are many hiking trails down here in Harpswell, Maine. I’ve visited some and still checking out others. Spring has come finally to southern coastal Maine. My companions on these excursions are few: my 5 yo granddaughter, Brinley, loves the hikes and the woods. My other frequent companion is my good friend, Jim. Jim is a little older than Brinley. Closer to my own senior status. (In fact, just a smidgen older.) But, usually I go alone, this is because I like to go on impulse between other activities on my busy calendar.

Each trail is unique with their own offerings of the coastal forests. All trails are rich with the scent of Maine’s conifers, sweet firs and varied brush. Pine, spruce, junipers. The birds are back and provide a soft, songful background to the scene. I met a fox on one trip. He was trotting through the shrubs and crossed my trail, with only a quick glance at me. We both were caught by surprise. Another time I ran into a family of deer. Widgeon Cove is a deep experience. Dark in places with drops into sylvan dips and turns. A few small climbs with trails that split for different sights and views. The coastal forests have suffered over years from strong winter blusters and ice storms, including the ice storm from the 90’s. It has left evidence: damaged trees, sometimes serious, fatal damage, exposing their guts and inner workings; some of these uprootings reaching my own height, other trees busted off above ground level sharp, splintered spears pointing skyward. Some older, larger trees crashed and dying, yet are held up by other sturdier trees. But, on closer observation the forest is growing back with new, green spruce and pine and a few birch and oaks. Life goes on.

For followers to this blog you won’t be surprised if I bring Janis into the picture. I’ve discovered, or become more aware that my nostalgia for all that concerns Janis is unavoidable. It is most heavy at the change of seasons. Seasons without her. Last month we were finally allowed in-person visits. We both have been fully vaccinated. I was able to be with her in her room for 3-half hour visits. These visits are what I call Covid visits. They have to be scheduled and are not daily. However, recently there was a scare after a person tested positive. Not anyone on Janis’s Unit. The facility holds nearly 200 including a Rehab Unit and Nursing Home. They have paused the visits until they re-test everyone in the entire facility. Including staff. This requires several days. They test all persons three times. So far the tests have been negative. I’m rescheduled for next week, assuming that all 3 tests come back negative. There is one more test. The results are due this Friday. So I didn’t have the opportunity to visit her on her birthday. I did send in a dozen roses. And I called her. This is a one way conversation but I’ve done this before and it has been quite successful. Staff hold the phone against her left ear (Janis is deaf and lost speech) and I talk to her. This is brief, partly because Janis’s attention span is lost after a few minutes, and it ties up a staff person because she can’t hold the phone herself. But these brief calls give her smiles and recognition that I have not forgotten her.

I’m going for a hike this morning just up the road from where I live, Curtis Cove. This hike also involves some hills, and also a large open field. I see more hikers on this trail. It’s popular. This is where Brinley and I go most frequently. Also, this Friday I’m meeting up with a man who was a boy in the camping, groupwork program I ran in the 1970’s. We connected via Facebook and have stayed in touch for a while now. Strangely…he’s no longer 12 years old and I’m no longer in my 30’s. As a kid I recall he did a great Steve Martin impersonation. “I’m a wild, and crazy guy!” Glen remained in the groupwork program for a few years and as a teen he helped me supervise outings, including a winter carnival in Quebec City, with younger kids. Several kids from that era of my life have stayed in touch. It pleases me.

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Filed under child abuse, dementia, mental health, Uncategorized, Writing