Becoming Brave. Again.

Over 20 years ago, I was in a workshop where we were asked to list three adjectives that described who we wanted to be or become. This was an aspirational exercise, one that through the process of naming would help us achieve these particular personal qualities. Or at least amplify them.

We probably did more writing about the list, but all I can remember now are the three words on it: Brave, Focused, Forgiving. For whatever reasons, I felt the need to become a person who was more brave, more focused, and more forgiving.

The brave part had to do with my decision to leave academic teaching and become self-employed, always a risky business. And “focused” would help me figure out what that freelance life would actually look like: what kind of writing and journal writing would I teach? For whom and where?  What kind of writing would I do? And how would I get published?

As for the forgiving part, that should be obvious to anyone who’s tried it.

So now two decades on, it seems I pretty much made the freelance life happen—my 15-page combined resume of workshops taught and essays (and book) published attests to that. And though the 2007 recession continues to disrupt it financially, I’m still teaching and writing.

As for the forgiving part, I’m using the Prayer to St. Francis to nudge me on down my list of potential forgivees: “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace/where there is hatred, let me sow love, where this is injury, pardon” etc. etc. That whole damn prayer is an invitation to become a more humble and less self-absorbed person.

And so the teaching and the writing and the forgiving continue on into my old-ish age, but now “Brave” has taken on a much different challenge for me: falling in love. Again. Time to seriously move on from the hurt of those two lost loves in my twenties and the slew of romantic missteps through my sixties.

To that end, I joined a match service last week, uploading my “profile,” which included a photo from 12 years ago (though I did give my correct age). Will upload more photos, including from my Facebook page. Those are way more recent, though not close enough to show my array of facial wrinkles. That very special view I’ll save for when I meet up with a potential suitor over a beer at my local.

Speaking of which, since launching myself into the dateosphere, Lou, Marty, David, and Tom have viewed my profile. I’ll be viewing theirs tomorrow. Stay tuned.

My Opposable Thumb Is On The Bum

The thing about falling—especially from a short distance—is that you don’t know you’re falling. One second you’re standing, and the next you’re flat-faced on concrete, an extremely unforgiving surface.

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night when I tripped while walking up the front porch stairs. No, it was last Saturday, a beautiful, clear evening. And I was especially happy (and perhaps more than usually distracted), having just returned from the wedding of my friend, Mary.

Mary is my role model for what I’ve taken to calling “late-life love.” We are the same age, as is her new husband, and like me she was married before, but then widowed. OK, so I wasn’t exactly widowed, though Philip LaChapelle did die, even if decades after I divorced him.

Anyway, back to the fall. 

Because I’d landed on concrete—and on my left side—the swelling and the bruising happened instantaneously, starting right above my eye, then skipping over my eye and landing on my cheekbone, which seemed to have taken the brunt of it. So in addition to the swelling and the bruising, there was also the scratching and the bleeding.

It wasn’t until at least an hour later, after getting up from the concrete, rushing into the house, into the kitchen, and into the freezer for ice, that I saw that my lip, left-hand thumb, and left knee were also swelling and bruising—a light blue-ish color that kept spreading.

Now according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, as reported last year, “[f]alls are [the] leading cause of injury and death in older Americans.”  This shouldn’t be news to anyone who’s either old or who know people who are.

Fortunately, for me, though, I’ve been falling for a good portion of my 70+ years, so I’m kind of practiced at it. Even as a kid, I was clumsy, prone to walking into tables, half-opened doors, and other stable objects around the house. The falling thing happened with some frequency starting in my early twenties, usually on sidewalks, and often resulting in injuries, including a fractured wrist and broken toes.

Then things got really interesting when I took up biking in my early forties: a number of falls off my bike, and once over the handlebars, resulted in a concussion and fractured ribs.

So, yes, I’ve sustained my share of injuries from years of falling, but you know what they say: that which doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger. Not sure how that applies exactly to all my bloody scratches and spreading bruises, but I’ll give it some deep thought.

Just not while out walking or biking.

Writing on the L

(NOTE: I've been going through my writing files and discovered this essay from several years ago. Though it was never published, I quite enjoyed writing it. I've edited it for length, but left the obvious anachronisms.)

           

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Friday around noon, I board the Brown line for a downtown visit with friends. The train car I enter is half full, with plenty of seats and no obviously disturbed riders.  Then moments after sitting down, I hear the grating sound of some handheld device set at stun.  There, half way down the aisle, a 40-ish fellow dressed in jeans and a blue cap sits enveloped in the noise, his legs bouncing up and down, arms flying as he plays imaginary drums, eyes tightly shut. 

           

Moments later, another sound, a loud rhythmic tapping.  Sitting at the other end of the car is a young, dark-haired woman playing the castanets.  Her eyes are also tightly shut. 

           

Now I’ve ridden public transportation in Chicago for over 30 years now. Even when I owned a car, I’d regularly take buses and trains to downtown restaurants, nearby bookstores, friends’ houses, and work. In the mid-80’s, I completed an entire masters degree on public transportation, reading Chaucer and Milton and writing ponderous academic papers on the long ride between my far north side apartment and the University of Illinois at Chicago. 

           

So I’m a certified fan of pub trans, and cannot imagine why anyone would daily submit themselves to rush hour traffic, pay a king’s ransom to park, and foul the air for generations to come.

           

Still, I confess to a certain crankiness when riding Chicago’s trains and buses.  Excuse me, I find myself saying to my fellow riders, but would you please pick up that garbage you just tossed on the floor.  Or lower your voice while on your cell phone, describing in some detail your naked girlfriend in the shower.  Or maybe wait to clip your nails when you get home.     

But I fear I am at the losing end of a cultural tsunami: the blurring of the lines between private and public behavior.  More and more people act on public transportation as if they were sitting alone in their darkened living rooms, in their pajamas, scratching, belching and farting, screaming at some screen, often with only the bewildered family dog as witness. 

           

And so this latest incident with the drummer and the castanet player has inspired me.  Personally I think it’s brilliant. Though some commuter trains now have a Quiet Car, I’d go several steps further, designating six specific cars, each reflecting the diverse needs of Chicago’s riding public: 

The Music Car would accommodate all riders with headsets, CD players, real instruments, and anyone moved to spontaneously tap their feet or sing out loud. This car can also be used for overflow from The Loud Talkers Car and the Car for Teenagers.

The Restaurant Car would accommodate all riders who eat and drink while in transit—carryout Chinese, Wendy’s burgers, KFC, six-packs of Bud.  These riders will be free to guzzle drinks, lick their fingers, belch loudly, and toss bones, wrappers and cans on the floor or just leave them on the seats. This car can also be used for overflow from the Car for Teenagers.

The Toilette Car would be reserved for those riders who haven’t finished their personal grooming before leaving home.  People in this car will be free to brush their hair and floss their teeth, apply or remove make-up and nail polish, pick their pimples and noses, and tweeze things. 

The Loud Talkers Car would accommodate people who sit across and down the aisle from their family, friends, and co-workers and carry on long conversations in loud voices sprinkled with obscenities and punctuated with high-pitched laughter. Also in this car, cell phone users, especially those who still don’t believe that the person on the other end can actually hear them. This car can accommodate the overflow from the Car for Teenagers.

The Car for Teenagers

The Heavenly People Car will be reserved exclusively for those riders who sit quietly in their seats and read, write in their journals, stare out the window, say the rosary, nap in place, and speak in normal voices to their seat mates. No overflow from any other car would be permitted. 

Not a perfect system, of course. For starters, there’s the enforcement issue. What if a strolling troubadour winds up in the Toilette Car?  Or one of the finger-lickin’ crowd wanders in with the musicians?  Well, come to think of it, who’d notice?

So maybe in the end, all we really need is one designated car—the Heavenly People Car. It’ll come equipped with special sensors to instantly eject loud talkers; amateur bongo players; and, of course, teenagers. 

R&R With Not Much of Either

Well, despite having taken a few weeks off for some R&R, I seem to have been quite busy, especially with writing and teaching. Which is just fine, as they are two of the most enjoyable things I do. Well, and plus watching night baseball games at my local bar and schmoozing with fellow fans.

Following, then, are the writing and teaching updates. As for the baseball games, I refer you to your favorite source of sports updates. Mine is WGN, mostly so I can also get the weather news from one of Chicago’s greatest treasures, Tom Skilling.

Here is the workshop update…

On August 17, I posted two of my September workshops currently registering: “Journaling as Spiritual Practice” at St. Margaret Mary Church in West Rogers Park on Monday, September 18, and “Finding Your Voice, Telling Your Stories” at the Newberry Library on Saturday, September 23.

Here’s the status of each:

The journaling workshop is half filled, so six spaces remain. The Newberry workshop has only one space remaining.

Please revisit that August 17 post if you’d like more information on both. I handle registration for the journal writing workshop, so you can email or call me at madmoon55@hotmail.com, 773.981.2282.

The Newberry takes registrations for the Finding Your Voice workshop. Online registration is closed, so please call the Library at (312) 255-3700 to sign up.

…and the writing update

On Tuesday, September 5, I was very honored to have my (brief) Vietnam story accepted and posted on this PBS website:

http://www.pbs.org/kenburns/the-vietnam-war/vietnam-stories/?stackla=ct_59aefde5bbc535b84a42278c#stories

On August 25, the essay I mentioned in the June 8 blogpost—“My Spiritual U-Turn—was published in the National Catholic Reporter, both in print and online:

https://www.ncronline.org/news/spirituality/was-i-lost-and-now-am-found-who-came-looking-me

Oh, and on August 24, I had a piece rejected that I’d submitted to a magazine in July. I’ve since revised and renamed the essay and will be submitting it to another publication within the next day or two. Onward and upward.