Sunday, December 03, 2006
This is the second time I've put this up. The first time, I went back and edited it out. I'm posting it again because, unless you are Emily Dickinson, writing is nothing without readership. The doubts and insecurities associated with writing anything that comes from the inside of a person are symptomatic of the entire process. (Bruce, ain't so?) In fact, the adventure in that process stems from that scary feeling that one experiences when they don't really know what the outcome is going to be. Though I've never skydived, I imagine it to be somewhat like the feeling that one would get the first time they jump out of a plane. To back away from that "who-a-a!" feeling would mean never leaving the plane at all. I'm talking about a certain amount of reckless abandon that is required to do anything that is truly authentic. Without it, all you have is a reprise of something already proven. (No one in their right mind reprises their mistakes, at least not in public.) In the end, writing is an expression of hope - a hope that your ideas do not exist alone. But rather, that there is an allegiance to them that is apart from yourself. In essence, I suppose that defines the difference between simply being human and being a part of humanity. That said, here is my reverie for Christmas 2006.
FOOTINGS
As a kid, I lived for those occasional summer mornings when I’d wake to the sound of a digger. There was no greater fascination for our neighborhood gang. From high atop the sand piles we’d stare, mesmerized by men who had the clout to create a house. I would grow impatient though, when the setting of cinder block and the pounding of nails had to wait while the footings were poured. I didn’t know then that, without those little concrete sidewalks underneath it all, the whole house could fall down.
Since late August, my sand pile climbing has been sidelined by a foot injury. Until then, I’d always paid sparse attention to my feet. Sporadic toenail clipping might save the cost of new socks but, where I was concerned, it did little for the feet. Evidently, I’m not alone in this regard. The multi-billion dollar shoe industry, where style outpaces function, gives testament to the perceived shortcomings of our feet. Maligned and misunderstood, the lowly foot runs near the back of the pack in the body parts competition.
A month after my surgery, I was camped on my father’s couch while paying him a long overdue visit. Plagued with arthritis, dad is not very good on his feet. Around bedtime, he brought me a pillow and I measured his progress down the hall by the creeping thump and roll of his walker. I was struck, and humbled, by the paradox of an eighty-seven year old man caring for his son. Clint Eastwood said, ‘know your limitations’. During the course of my recovery, I had become painfully aware of mine. But I was even more impressed by the courage that my dad needs to get through his daily routine.
Over the past few months I’ve been treading along a small portion of my father’s path. The loss of mobility that frequently comes with age, or an injury for that matter, can limit our energy, as well as our reach. The careless activities that full function might allow become the death defying acts of the foolhardy. Finally, pain and discomfort can set limits to our imagination and our horizons, as they slowly chip away at the spirit. All of this detriment stands poised against those who, for a short time or a lifetime, must do without good footing.
Through my brief disability, I’ve learned what my father probably already knew. Like so much in life, what seems a hardship is often a gift. The underpinnings of our lives are often invisible and out of mind yet, without them, we’re bound to fall short – and often, with a hard landing. Life’s footings can be found at the ends of our legs, but also in the friends, the family and the loves that life brings with it.
May you dance with your loved ones this Christmas Season and through the New Year!
Taking one step at a time…
- PBob
FOOTINGS
As a kid, I lived for those occasional summer mornings when I’d wake to the sound of a digger. There was no greater fascination for our neighborhood gang. From high atop the sand piles we’d stare, mesmerized by men who had the clout to create a house. I would grow impatient though, when the setting of cinder block and the pounding of nails had to wait while the footings were poured. I didn’t know then that, without those little concrete sidewalks underneath it all, the whole house could fall down.
Since late August, my sand pile climbing has been sidelined by a foot injury. Until then, I’d always paid sparse attention to my feet. Sporadic toenail clipping might save the cost of new socks but, where I was concerned, it did little for the feet. Evidently, I’m not alone in this regard. The multi-billion dollar shoe industry, where style outpaces function, gives testament to the perceived shortcomings of our feet. Maligned and misunderstood, the lowly foot runs near the back of the pack in the body parts competition.
A month after my surgery, I was camped on my father’s couch while paying him a long overdue visit. Plagued with arthritis, dad is not very good on his feet. Around bedtime, he brought me a pillow and I measured his progress down the hall by the creeping thump and roll of his walker. I was struck, and humbled, by the paradox of an eighty-seven year old man caring for his son. Clint Eastwood said, ‘know your limitations’. During the course of my recovery, I had become painfully aware of mine. But I was even more impressed by the courage that my dad needs to get through his daily routine.
Over the past few months I’ve been treading along a small portion of my father’s path. The loss of mobility that frequently comes with age, or an injury for that matter, can limit our energy, as well as our reach. The careless activities that full function might allow become the death defying acts of the foolhardy. Finally, pain and discomfort can set limits to our imagination and our horizons, as they slowly chip away at the spirit. All of this detriment stands poised against those who, for a short time or a lifetime, must do without good footing.
Through my brief disability, I’ve learned what my father probably already knew. Like so much in life, what seems a hardship is often a gift. The underpinnings of our lives are often invisible and out of mind yet, without them, we’re bound to fall short – and often, with a hard landing. Life’s footings can be found at the ends of our legs, but also in the friends, the family and the loves that life brings with it.
May you dance with your loved ones this Christmas Season and through the New Year!
Taking one step at a time…
- PBob
