The First Step

 Last night, as I was about to head upstairs and get ready for bed, I glanced down  and noticed, close to the wall just below the first step, a small scrap of paper that seemed to be suspended in air. It caught my eye. How unusual, I thought, for a scrap of paper to be placed like that, a few inches above the floor, as if inviting me to pick it up.  I bent over to take a closer look.  I could see some typewritten words, but couldn’t make them out (even in the aftermath of my cataract surgery) so I decided to snap a photo instead.

We’re trained to look for logical explanations when we encounter unusual phenomenon, but in this case, I quickly exhausted the possibilities.  The slip of paper looked like it came from a fortune cookie, but we haven’t had Chinese take out in a few weeks, and neither my wife nor I could remember having seen this particular fortune before, either in or outside a cookie.  Not only that, but we had thoroughly cleaned house only two days before, so how could this bundle of dust and dog hair accumulate so quickly, with the slip of paper turned upward and so perfectly placed? I was left to ruminate on more implausible explanations. Maybe one of our artist friends had come by unnoticed to stage this Situationist masterpiece.

What are we to make of the various small miracles life sends our way? When a golden scarab knocks on cue at the windowpane, we're inclined to chalk it up to serendipity, kismet or synchronicity. Whatever word we use, the impulse is usually the same. What once might have been deemed providential we now denigrate as nothing more than a remarkable coincidence. It is simply the human mind's propensity to attach deeper meaning to such coincidences.

But the truth is, I am delighted and increasingly baffled by these little miracles. I can't shake the sense that some hand other than my own is at work, shaping life's story. The first step toward change is awareness. The next step is acceptance. The third step may be learning to recognize there are meanings and messages that have been written into the fabric of the universe, and not simply ascribed to it by the human mind.

Thirty Years Moldering

Juneteenth this year was the 30th anniversary of my father's death. 

I’ve written elsewhere about my relationship with him, directly and indirectly. Dinkelmann’s Rules, The Life and Times of Richard Musto, even my translation of the Monkey King saga: those books all reflect an effort to grapple with the various character flaws he managed to pass along to me. 

With the passage of thirty years and all the ink already spilled, you might well think, enough is enough. But today I find myself wanting to post this brief update.  After all, being a composter, I try to pay close attention to the changes that accompany the process of decay and decomposition.  Over the course of many years, countless green shoots emerge from both the good and bad that were interred with the bones.

The truth is that I feel closer to my dad now than ever before, readier to acknowledge and accept some of his flaws as my own, along with a few of his better qualities.  How he loved to plant and transplant trees. How he loved his orange grove. I remember him standing on a hillside, catching his breath as he mopped the sweat from his brow, before he resumed digging the next hole.  No doubt, all the flowers presently blooming around me in the garden are part of the enduring gift of his legacy.

Whatever knack my dad had for nurturing plants, though, did not translate well into the human realm. As a parent, he was awkward and indifferent at best. Sarcasm and teasing were his habitual modes of address, reflecting his deep insecurities and discomfort in his own skin.  Emotional intimacy was simply not part of his repertoire. Not that he was without warmth and affection, but far better to be his niece or nephew, who could enjoy his teasing at a remove, than his son trying to decipher what was meant when he archly called my name.      

Yet everything serves a purpose, as Marissa often says, and even my father’s chronic derision has ended up serving me well. True enough, I was prone to glibness and irony in my younger days.  But insincerity eventually grows brittle and the sarcasm that was endemic to my childhood has ripened into a mature love of poetry.