Trusting the Ground Crew

As far as my phobias go, I would have to say "fear of heights" probably ranks as number three.

Do not be fooled by this into thinking that it is a mild fear. It is not. Let me give you a quick story to illustrate the point.

Once upon a time (actually, around fifteen years ago), while I was working for the North Carolina Outward Bound School, I found myself sitting on a platform near the top of the tree line in the Pisgah national forest. I was about 60 feet in the air, about to depart from the last element of the "ropes course" there in the woods.

If you have never had the pleasure of a ropes course, let me describe it. Imagine a skeletal fortress of telephone poles and guy wires that towers above you, standing on the ground. Then imagine someone points at this flimsy bastion of questionable architecture and says, "Climb that." The only way through is up, and the only way off is, well...

...That's usually a surprise they don't mention when you're there on the ground. I have been on a lot of ropes courses in my life (particularly when I was working for Outward Bound), and the last element is always pretty dramatic. You never just climb down off a ropes course, like you would expect a civilized person would. No. You have to make one last stab at conquering fears and team building and trust and all that. Which means that it's usually going to involve some sort of leap into the abyss.

By that point in my career as an outdoor adventurer, I was expecting the standard mode of ropes course egress: the zip line. But sitting on that platform that morning, there was no zip line. No. I was strapped in and harnessed to what basically amounted to a long pendulum wire. In other words, to get off this particular ropes course, I was going to have to fall off the small platform upon which I was sitting, free-fall in air until the guy wire I was strapped to pulled taut, and then swing back and forth until my momentum slacked enough that somebody could climb a ladder to catch hold of my foot and help me down.

My palms are sweating just writing this, by the way.

It took me a long time to move my butt off that platform. That, however, is not my evidence for my fear of heights. No. That evidence came later in the trip.

One of the guides with the crew I was with that trip was an Australian named Bruce (I'm not kidding). He had been leading a different activity that morning, so I hadn't seen him most of the day. The next morning he and I were together at the rock climbing site, and he asked me, "Were you on the ropes course yesterday?"

Yeah, I answered. But why was he asking?

"I was leading a hike up the mountain yesterday," he said, laughing, "and we heard you screaming."

* * *

Given that I am terrified to be more than a few feet off the ground (really, even stepladders can prove to be a challenge), you might well ask, how the heck was I able to get up onto that ropes course in the first place?

Ah. To explain that, I will have to tell you about "ground school."

A ropes course, like many other outdoor activities like rock climbing and rappelling, is a technical activity that involves a series of calculated risks offset by the implementation of safety equipment. In the case of a high-elements ropes course, that equipment includes a Swiss seat, a redundant pair of high-load bearing locking carabiners, a lot of nylon rope (referred to as "webbing"), and a crash helmet.

Participants would suit up in all of this gear, and then our leaders walked us over to a clearing about fifty feet away from the ropes course. There, on the ground, was a horizontal telephone pole, sitting just a few inches off the ground, with a horizontal guy wire stretched about five or six feet above it.

This was ground school. The crew had each of us, in turn, get up on the pole and lock ourselves onto the guy wire with the two carabiners. The carabiners, in turn, were attached, via short lengths of nylon webbing, to the Swiss seats at our waists. Once we were locked in, the leaders just had us walk, back and forth, along the length of the pole. Simple enough.

Then, right as a little boredom was starting to set in, a new instruction was given: "OK," the leader said," Fall."

Huh?

"Fall."

The task, basically, was to lose your balance and fall off the pole. Now, I don't know about you, but falling is not comfortable for me. My body resisted. It wanted to balance. It took work to fall off the pole. Then, just as I was getting used to the discomfort of falling, a revelation.

The webbing snapped taut, and the harness at my waist caught me. I was no longer falling; I was hanging. I was hanging in mid-air, and not altogether uncomfortably. I looked around. This seemed solid. I felt safe.

A few more minutes on the pole, and several more falls, confirmed again and again that the equipment could be trusted. It would catch me and hold me, even if I lost my balance. With each fall, my confidence in the process -- and my confidence in myself -- increased a little bit. By the time I got off the pole, I was still afraid of heights, but my body was slowly convinced that the equipment I was in was stronger than the danger I feared.

* * *

Bruce took some obvious pleasure in teasing me about my terror. Despite this, I can honestly say that -- except for that last part, swinging and freefalling in the unforgiving sky -- I was not overly uncomfortable with my time on the ropes course. By "not overly uncomfortable," I mean that I was actually able to function and not freeze in abject fear. Given my experiences of other high places (suspension bridges, theater catwalks, Rock City), this was quite an accomplishment -- for all parties concerned.

I remember the theater catwalk particularly vividly. I was in college, working backstage at the campus theater for my freshman-year work study. Most of my job had been sawing wood, hammering together sets, and painting (and painting, and painting). But one day, the boss wanted me to go up into the ceiling and rig lights. So I climbed up a set of stairs, through a cubby hole, shimmied past the pipes of a pipe organ, and climbed a long and somewhat precariously balanced stepladder. Reaching the top, I had to crawl through another hole, where someone had sawed through the wall up near the ceiling, and onto the catwalk.

If you have never been on a catwalk, don't. Just don't. You're some fifty feet in the air, and you are standing on a narrow plank of thin and (as I recall) queasily-flexible plywood. To my right, on the stage side, there was a metal bar that the lights were screwed on to. To my left, there was one steel cable. You couldn't stand all the way up.

So there I was, high in the air, with -- as far as I could tell -- absolutely nothing to keep me from falling to my death.

I froze. I froze solid. I remember the boss cussed a blue streak at me for freezing, but I froze. I might have timidly adjusted the light closest to me. I might have been able to move just enough to get to one more, but that was it. Utterly useless.

* * *

You might well ask what allowed for the difference between that frozen state on the catwalk and my relative success, years later, on the Pisgah ropes course. What was the secret to not freezing?

Simple enough to answer. The difference is trust. Sad to say, but I certainly did not trust my boss at the theater job to look out for the well being of my life and limb. In contrast, at the ropes course, that time spent on that pole a few inches off the ground accomplished two essential and profound things in my psyche that morning before I scaled up to the treetops.

First, it caused me to get comfortable with the equipment, and with how the equipment would protect me. That unexpected command, "Fall," and the feeling of being securely caught again and again when I fell, helped me trust the harnesses and carabiners and webbing holding me in place.

Second, and more importantly, these moments of growing confidence in the equipment increased my confidence, with each fall, in the folks who had put the equipment on me in the first place. It's hard to describe accurately -- maybe it was a strange equivalent of what they call "Stockholm Syndrome," where kidnap victims begin to empathize with their captors -- but I felt a bond with the leaders grow almost in an instant that was very strong. I knew I was going to be safe because I trusted that these folks were looking out for me.

I trusted my ground crew.

* * *

The goal of all the activities in Outward Bound, of course, is not simply to get people into the outdoors. If you only looked casually, though, that's exactly what you would see. But as you examine the pedagogical philosophy more closely, you begin to see that what happens on an Outward Bound trip in the woods could just as easily occur in the heart of a city. The secret goal of Outward Bound is not wilderness adventure. It is risk.

"Risk" is almost a dirty word these days. We insure ourselves and shield ourselves to avoid it at all costs. In contemporary living, "risk" equates with "danger." It is this vicious pairing that the pedagogy of Outward Bound seeks to uncouple. Many of us -- most of us -- surround ourselves with a zone of comfort and safety. Anything beyond this zone is, by the logic of our comfort, "dangerous." Think, for example, of all the books on public speaking that report (perhaps apocryphally, perhaps not), that a majority of Americans surveyed "would rather die than give speech."

That's a great example of this collapse of "risk" into "danger." To give a speech creates anxiety because there is the risk one will be embarrassed. But embarrassment won't cause you physical harm. Death, on the other hand, is just about the textbook definition of "physically harmful." The two aren't the same. In our modern cocoons of air-conditioning and antacids, however, we are quite likely to forget that.

On that catwalk in the theater you might suggest I was in actual danger, and I would not argue with you. That was a moment when my fear, perhaps, served me and my survival well.

At the ropes course, however, as I was told again, "Fall," and I fell and was caught, my body began to learn (slowly) that -- though this felt like danger -- I was not in danger. I was safe.

It is this zone, where you feel the danger but you are not actually in danger, that the pedagogy of Outward Bound is designed to explore. When you learn to function in this zone, you begin to discern the difference between your brain screaming at you that you are in danger and actually dangerous conditions. Facing the zone of risk, people begin to find in themselves reserves of strength and fortitude they had not previously suspected would exist. If that sounds idealistic, it should. It is hella idealistic, and I do not make apologies for that, because I've seen (and felt in my own bones) that it works.

The ability to function in risk, however, is not as simple as making a decision or mouthing pious words. It has to start deep within a person, as the soul learns, inscrutably and by mysterious increments, to trust that, in falling, the harness will hold.

* * *

It was about two in the morning when she awakened me. It was passing from Saturday to Sunday, and it was the dead of January and it was so very cold in Memphis. We were bundled up under the covers and had been sleeping well enough when, groggy, I figured out that she was telling me -- again, because I must have been asleep the first time around -- that she thinks her water just broke.

We had planned for this, sort of. We knew that this was just the beginning, and that there was still a long way to go. And it was two in the morning. And suddenly we were shit-sure wide awake and excited, and also trying to convince each other that we needed to go back to sleep; that we needed our rest for all that was ahead.

We turned on the little portable DVD player by the bed. Put on an episode of The Office to distract us with a little laughter. Snuggle back in again against the cold. Try to get a little sleep.

* * *

While the expectations in the Catholic Church are firm about attending weekly Mass, there are also generous loopholes for times of distress or concerns for health. Though I don't know that I have ever seen it mentioned explicitly in the Catechism, we took the liberty the next morning of skipping church on account of the fact that Kira was now on the near edge of labor. Every now and -- ouch! -- again there was a contraction. We thought they were big. We timed them, and then began timing the intervals between. But for the most part, we just had a nice morning and relaxed.

There was another episode of The Office to take our mind off things, and then we went for a walk into Cooper-Young and had lunch at the Deli. I forget whether we split a sandwich, or whether we each had one of our own. I do remember, though, that we were laughing about what we might say if one of the wait staff or another patron asked us (as had happened so often since Kira started to show), "When are you due?"

"Um...NOW!" we kept giggling.

* * *

Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which are, of course, the three mysterious women who arrive to aid Meg and Charles Wallace in the intergalactic and inter-dimensional search for their father -- the conceit that drives the narrative of Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time.

Wrinkle entered my life through one of those Scholastic order forms in elementary school, where you can sign up to get Newberry and Caldecott winners on the cheap. Moreover, Wrinkle entered my life at a point when I was young enough that my parents were still together. Maybe it was second grade -- that feels about right.

Regardless of the exact details, though, I think I can safely credit A Wrinkle in Time for prompting me to be somewhat overly well-disposed towards a trio of crazy women who swoop into your house at all hours, coming to aid in the transportation to strange new worlds and mysterious new realms. In other words, you can thank the Scholastic Book Service for this ease I have when I meet three crazy women on a holy mission.

Needless to say, the first time I met the Full Circle Midwives -- Martina, Melissa and Missy -- I couldn't help but think, "Aha: Which, Whatsit and Who." They were quite a team: a German expat, a crunchy Earth-mama type, and a doula -- each with well over a decade (or two) of experience.

Midwifery practices are few and far between in this part of Tennessee, but as we compared the options available we knew we were very pleased with what we saw. From the first weeks we had been in Memphis, mid-way into Kira's pregnancy, we had been under their watchful care. They had conducted examinations of Kira and had given us access to numerous (and at times overwhelmingly explicit) videos and resources, as well as simply reassuring us and letting us know that we were not in this alone.

* * *

Martina came to the house once in the afternoon and twice later in the evening that Sunday.

Kira and I were, by turns, going on walks around the block and relaxing (as much as possible) back at home. We had rearranged the downstairs a couple of weeks before. Now, with the dining room table pushed to one side, we had cleared a large space for the futon mattress and all the supplies we had been told to gather. When Martina arrived she added to our stash of supplies, bringing along an oxygen tank and a couple of medium-sized duffel bags full of medical and midwifery stuff.

With each visit that day she only stayed a little while. She checked Kira's progress, and made sure everything was normal (it was), and offered praise and encouragement and helpful suggestions on how to get rest. For the most part, however, she exuded a steady calm that was very reassuring, if for no other reason than that, for us, "calm" was periodically in short supply.

By the time Martina left after her late-evening visit, Kira's contractions, which we thought were big at the start of the day, had become much bigger. In fact, at points, they were huge. The night became a groggy ballet for the two of us, as we alternated brief periods of sleep with Kira moaning and me massaging her lower back. But we did manage to sleep, there on that futon mattress on the floor. As before, The Office helped.

* * *

That Monday morning I awoke, and Kira was already up. At this point, she had been in labor for just around thirty hours. It was a good thing we were doing this at home (doctors tend to get impatient, I have heard, if labor goes on and on).

We were still timing the contractions, and noting the time between. They were -- how to say this? -- regularly irregular. Kira would call out, "Starting," and I would count Mississippis to myself until she indicated that she was finished. At some point, we graduated to a timer on a webpage that would count the times and intervals for us. We showered, puttered, and timed, spending most of the morning trying still to rest and relax. We made it through a good chunk of that Office season box set.

I was useful, though. When a contraction would hit, Kira found it comfortable to sort of wrap her arms around my neck and hang down against me, rocking softly back and forth. I got good at being a steady weight that she could moan against. I'll be honest -- I really liked this part. It made me feel not quite so on the outside of it all. I was part of the team, even if I wasn't the one swinging for the fence, like Kira was.

* * *

A Swiss seat is an odd contraption. The first time you pull one on, it doesn't fit you quite like you expect. You're used to belts that cinch tight around the waist, above the hips. A Swiss seat isn't like that. It grabs you around the thighs, mostly. Then, when you start getting into a weight-bearing situation, the harness pulls tight across your butt. The "seat" part is no mistake -- this thing is designed for you to sit in, not to keep your pants up.

The first time I ever got into one I was up repairing a roof in Sewanee, my old college burgh. It was a house down near the town market, as I recall, and we had gotten a bunch of students out that morning to help fix up the place. It was a student organization kind of like Habitat for Humanity (I think now they might even be a Habitat chapter), and I was one of the lucky ones who drew the short straw. The height bothered me, but as long as I stayed pretty far from the edge, the large flat surface of the roof kept my in the range of sanity. We used Swiss seats and long ropes that we borrowed from the wilderness program to make sure us undergrads didn't go cracking our skulls open in the midst of our good deed.

What I liked about the Swiss seat best, of course, was this: as you leaned into it, it tightened. The more you needed it to hold you, the more secure it felt.

* * *

Martina arrived around noon, and immediately started brewing an extraordinarily strong pot of raspberry leaf tea. Then she examined Kira again, and I showed her our dutiful log of contractions.

It's actually pretty funny. When you watch births portrayed on television and the movies, there's all this rushing and hectic energy. "Push! ... Push! ... PUSH!..." and suddenly you hear the telltale "Waaaaaaaaaa" and there are smiles of relief and everybody can't believe they did it and such. Time an on-screen birth sometime. From onset of labor to final "PUSH!" I will bet you that it occurs in under three minutes.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you, as one for whom the televised versions of birth were my sole training in the process before all of this began, real human births ain't fast like that.

Which is all to say, they also make it seem, in those movies and shows, that the timing of contractions is vital information, and that the contractions escalate like some sort of mad logarithmic freight train, doubling and doubling like Moore's law applied as much to wetware as it does hardware.

I was disabused of this fiction with Martina's perfunctory, "Hmph. Okay," as I showed her the timetables. Then she went back to tending to my wife. And I realized that, though the contraction timing may not have been anything close to vital information, it did give Kira and me something to hold on to, and something to do, that kept our minds away from panic until the real work needed to begin.

But now things actually were progressing, slowly, and the real work needed to begin.

* * *

The really extraordinarily strong pot of raspberry leaf tea, I learned, helps to spur the mother's body on to stronger and more regular contractions. It's a bit of midwifery wisdom that keeps at bay the need for drug interventions like Pitocin.

While we were waiting for the pot to brew, the three of us went for a walk around the neighborhood. Actually, I'm being generous. We actually just took a walk around the corner and to the end of the street. This is a distance that, under more usual conditions, would take Kira and I just a few moments to cross. On this walk, however, Martina and I took turns as Kira, every few steps, stopped and labored through another growing contraction. Sometimes she would hang onto my neck, or lean down against Martina.

I imagine we were an odd-looking trio, moving slowly down the street and stopping with a moaning woman doubled-over again and again. Like at the Deli the day before, we laughed thinking how we would explain ourselves if someone were to come out of their house and want to know what was going on. "Don't worry, we're fine...She's just having a baby..."

* * *

Martina's approach was nurturing and encouragement all the way. When she praised me for how well I was supporting Kira through this part of the labor, I felt like a million bucks. For a few hours, the three of us were a solid team, with she and I taking turns supporting Kira through the contractions. During this time, it really felt like Kira's body was the one in control, and anything that it did -- whether fast or slow -- was just fine.

But Martina had to leave to attend to some family obligations around 3:30 (though she was reluctant to leave us at that point), and so, with Kira now quite full of raspberry leaf tea and me continuing my role as human monkey bars for her to hang on during the painful moments, she said goodbye for now. Not to worry, though. Help was on the way.

At quarter to four, Melissa arrived. Help was here.

Now let me say this. If you would have just shown all this to me on paper, I would have been sure that, of the two, the earth-mama type (Melissa) would have taken the laid-back, "everything your body does is good" approach and the German (Martina) would have been the third-base coach. Shows you what I know.

As soon as she got situated, Melissa got us working to help that baby get ready to come out. Kira was up, switching positions, rocking hips and bouncing on the big exercise ball or laying on her side. As before, I was switching with her, being there when she needed to lean and massaging her lower back.

I felt a lot less essential to the process, but I understood why. Kira's contractions were shifting. They had been intense before, but she had been at this for so long that she risked exhaustion, and there was more intensity yet to come. If Martina's approach had been like someone coaxing a deer from the edge of a forest, Martina was breaking a wild bronco. Kira's body was still in control, but it didn't necessarily know the best direction to run. Melissa had every good reason to be stern in her approach.

It worked, too. About 4:30, Missy (the doula) arrived, and by that point contractions and dilation were steadily progressing. Nothing was rapid. In fact, Kira was feeling it was too slow, and worrying she'd have to transfer to the hospital. I remembered (from all the videos the midwives had given us to watch) that a lot of moms feel that way in labor right before things really shift into high gear -- so I encouraged her and reminded her of that. She was amazing, and rallied around that thought and hung in there.

Missy and Melissa were the team now. I felt the "woman energy" in the room rising markedly, even as my own energy was dwindling. Amazingly (to me, at least), Martina had predicted this, and left instructions with Missy to look out for me. So at five o'clock she sent me upstairs with a sandwich and suggested I nap, if possible.

* * *

We were out in the Pisgah forest for about five days, and on the next to last night the leaders gave each of us a tarp and sent us off by ourselves to make a camp and shelter ourselves with nothing but the materials we had immediately at hand. So I found a good, low tree with cooperative branches and fixed up the tarp with my shoelaces and (since I had a ponytail at the time) some of the elastic bands I had brought along to tie my hair back.

That time alone that evening was profound. I remember I spent a long time brushing the tangles out of my hair, and listening to the sounds of the woods. When you go on an Outward Bound trek, part of the gear you bring along is a book of inspirational readings that they have bound up in a pocket-sized folio with some blank pages for your own thoughts and reflections. I read a while, and then I wrote a while, and, strangely, I found myself crying for a while. Today I could not for the life of me tell you what those tears were about. Exhaustion? Alone-ness? Beauty? I don't know. But I cried. That's for sure.

Dusk came, and as the daylight fell away, I felt my body become heavy and sleep came easily as the sun disappeared. I remember this was the first time I had ever felt that sort of slippage into slumber. I am so used to electric lights and fighting the dark that I was surprised to find how naturally my body tuned itself into the circadian rhythm. It remembered something I did not; my body knew how to do this better than I did.

Most of my life, thinking I was the one in control, I had really just been getting in its way.

* * *

My eyes were open at seven sharp.

I was disoriented for a moment, and heard voices downstairs. I found out later that, at almost that same time, Kira had gone into what they call "transition," the final stage of labor. The baby drops into position in the pelvic girdle, and that's when all the muscles shift from stretching open to pushing the baby down and out.

I have been told that mothers often make a very peculiar moan as this occurs. I do not know if I heard the moan, or if that was what caused me to wake. I do know, however, that Melissa heard it, and shifted into action.

During my nap, Martina had returned, and as I came downstairs I beheld for the first time the three of them together. Mrs. Which, Mrs. Whatsit and Mrs. Who had descended on our home in this cold and windy night, and magic was afoot. Time was wrinkling. Dimensions were shifting. Without knowing the mode of transport, we were arriving on a strange new planet, a new world.

* * *

It was hard not to feel like an outsider, like I had missed something important. The woman energy was in full swing, and I had none of it to offer. Groggy, I fretted over this, but almost at the same moment, I was put back to work. I was rested; Kira needed my strength now.

She tells me she remembers almost nothing of that last hour. In the moments between the stabs of pain, she would black out. When she did manage to remain awake for a few minutes, Missy or Martina made sure she took a bite of some food to keep her energy up. Meanwhile, Melissa was there, in the "catcher" position, keeping track of the progress.

I was shifted in behind her, and she leaned into me again. As much as I could be, I was with her. I wanted, prayed, that I could absorb her pain through my skin and away from her.

As we had those many months before, our bodies found a rhythm. Holding on to her, we rode the storm together.

* * *

At 8:04, the telephone rang. The next day I checked the message. It had been my father, calling for an update.

* * *

What caused those tears, that evening in the forest? I wish I knew. It was so many years ago.

But I remember how lost I felt at that point in my life. I was in my mid-twenties, and -- though I was careening ahead into life and debt and decisions and age -- I had no discernible direction. I was a trajectory without a bearing, without a compass. I felt good for nothing and nobody, least of all myself. If I were to bet, something of that was wrapped up in those tears, that evening in the forest.

What had changed, in all those years since? Had enough changed?

* * *

"Do you want to reach down and feel the top of your baby's head, Kira?"

"Oh my God. Oh my God."

* * *

After all the waiting, after forty-two hours of labor, the final distance closed so quickly.

I think it surprised Kira most of all, suddenly to be holding our child, but I can't say I was any more prepared for that little pink face suddenly so close to mine. We forgot to ask what it was at first. All that mattered was that a moment ago we had been alone in the world together, and now we were shared. Healthy and pink and breathing, a new story for the world.

No longer a "Kritter." Maggie. Beautiful pink Maggie.

* * *

Midwives are shamans. They are field medics. They are crones and anchors. When my wife was hungry, they fed her. When, after the labor was done, she was bleeding from the effort of that last instant of distance, they mended her wounds with salve and suture.

As I held Maggie for the first time, they washed dishes and laundry. The house was returned to normalcy with a humble and efficient speed. The triumph was Kira's, not theirs. They were there to accompany and to serve, to encourage and to guide.

What physician, tell me, would have done this?

The triumph was Kira's, and now she rested, cared for by a trio of three mysterious women -- Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which.

* * *

There's still a chill in the air, and a bit of morning mist. My skin is tingling from the bite of November, but I'm not cold. I feel good.

One step at a time. I unclip the caribiner from the hook sunk in the wood, and stretch my arm above my head until I can lock it in place on the guy wire above. Once it's secure, I'm linked both to the pole I'm coming from and to the pole I'm moving to. Redundancy.

I hitch my leg a bit and shift my weight, and then I'm swinging up. Once my feet are solid, I reach down and unhook the second caribiner and lift it above my head to the other guy wire. Once it's in place, I dial my fingers across them both to lock them tight. As I come out of the stretch, I feel the Swiss seat tightening a bit across my backside.

I look up. I'm above the treetops now. The autumn patches of yellows and red dot the forest into the distance up the mountain. Turning the other direction, I lean out, and the harness catches me as I hang out from the pole, secure.

The sun has risen high enough now to have burned off the morning haze.

I can see for miles.

Do not mistake coincidence for fate.

Thank you to Presvytera Marion Turner for sharing this with me.

"Our Daughter" (a poem)

Our daughter
Who art in bathtub,
Glistening be thy rump.

Thy towels come
To dry thy bum,
And then it is off to bedtime.

You had, this day,
Your daily breast
And numerous spit ups
(Though we forgive you, who spits up
Against us)
And sleep is not even temptation,
But a wager made through rocking.

For thou art the tired, the hungry, and the fussy
and not yet a Toddler. Amen.

Charon & Me

"What do you think we do? We take them over a river of despair, until they can see a glimmer of hope, and then we push them out."

# # #

In August, I had one of those abrupt, life changing moments that come unexpectedly now and then. Perhaps to you it will seem a little thing. And perhaps it is just a little thing. For me, however, it was a seed crystal. You know about seed crystals - in a super-saturated solution in a chemistry lab, for example, a seed crystal is what can suddenly transform a beaker full of liquid into a solid lump. Or, though of another way, a seed crystal (say, a grain of sand) when paired with an oyster, is what gets you a pearl. For me, though, on this day, the crystallization was very rapid. And the pearl was priceless.

I was sitting in one of the far booths at Bob's Barksdale Restaurant, eating breakfast (best breakfast in Memphis, and don't you forget). I was eating there most mornings because Kira was still in Nashville, finishing an internship. I had just gotten the first issue of a new magazine called AFAR. It's sort of an existential take on the old travel magazine model. Lots of interesting articles, but most of them are pretty pedestrian in terms of, you know, life impact.

There was a one-page feature, though, under the heading "NOMAD." A brief piece, intended to focus on someone in medias res, with a snapshot of their life on the road. The nomad featured in this first issue was web designer Mark Salvatore. One page of interview was on the right, and on the left was a picture of Mark. He is sitting on a table, somewhere in an apartment he rented down in Mexico. He's sitting cross legged, and to his left and right are several pairs of pants and some shirts, folded and piled. There's a camera, a laptop, some computer accessories, a flashlight, and a couple extra pairs of eyeglasses. On the floor in front of him are three pairs of shoes, two bags, and a tripod.

The caption to the photo reads, "Mark Salvatore, surrounded by all his earthly possessions."

# # #

Let me back up a minute.

Ten months ago, my mother died.

There's a lot I should add to that sentence. However, if you're human (and, if you're reading this, I suspect you probably are), chances are quite good that you, too have had a complex loss occur in your life. Meaning you will understand me when I simply say that Mom and I had a fair amount of unfinished emotional business between us when she shuffled off this mortal coil. So let me leave it at that, and press on to the most pertinent aspect, for this writing, of her passing. That pertinent aspect would be, of course, a rented house, full from floor to two storeys of ceilings, with stuff.

When Kira and I arrived to deal with funeral home arrangements and such, we had about four days before we both had to be back in Nashville. That meant we had a lot of very hard decisions to make in a very short period of time. Decisions about all these various items, from my mother's artwork and drawings to tchotchkies and knicknacks. Some of these were tied up with my childhood memories. All of this had had some sort of inscrutable significance, for her, in her life. It must have, right? Why else would it all be held on to?

But I couldn't hold on to it. We had one small car - a backseat and a trunk - that was all. The trick was finding the things we had to keep, no matter what. The rest, at the end of the four days, was turned over to an estate company. It had to go.

# # #

Have you ever read Anne Sexton's poem, "All My Pretty Ones"?

Years ago, maybe I was sixteen or a little after, I first read, it, and had the uncanny experience of being moved to tears by words alone. I'll leave others to recite it whole for you. For now, these words will suffice. I was thinking these words throughout those four days, and I have thought them again and often again, after:

But the eyes, as thick as wood in this album,

hold me. I stop here, where a small boy

waits in a ruffled dress for someone to come ...

for this soldier who holds his bugle like a toy

or for this velvet lady who cannot smile.

Is this your father’s father, this commodore

in a mailman suit? My father, time meanwhile

has made it unimportant who you are looking for.

I’ll never know what these faces are all about.

I lock them into their book and throw them out.

What saddened me the most, standing as I was beneath that mountain of items in my mother's house, was that I had there, in front of me, all the locks, but no keys. To my mother, these may well have been treasures; to me, they were but ciphers. How to know what is wheat, what is chaff?

The answer, of course, was now dead. My mother held those keys, and took them with her to the next world.

I remember all those bad detective dramas I watched on TV when I was a kid. Remington Steele, Hart to Hart, Quincy. How many times did I watch a variation on the theme of someone murdering someone else so that they could get their things? Here I was, then, in the exact reverse situation. It wasn't the things that I wanted; I wanted to have had a relationship such that I would have known these things, and their significance. Without that relationship, the things really meant very little. In fact, the things I kept were the very things I could connect, in some way, to her life, or our life together.

Only in this hoarded span, Sexton wrote, will love persevere.

But what are we to hoard?

# # #

I cried again at words on a page, that morning in August, when I read, "Mark Salvatore, surrounded by all his earthly possessions."

I don't think my mother ever had the kind of relationship she had wanted with her family. In fact, I know she didn't. I don't think my father ever did, either, though he may still be working to correct that. But because they lacked these essential relationships, they did what many, many people do. They filled the hole with things.

I can make that claim with some authority because, you see, I am my mother's son. Like her, and like many, I also spent a ton of years (and I mean exactly that) collecting, hoarding, holding, and hauling "my stuff." Books. Records. CDs. Posters. Knicknacks. Tschotchkies. Clothes. Shoes. Hell, I even held on to broken and busted items because, well, you know, I might fix them someday.

Or maybe I was holding on to all this stuff because, somewhere in the back of my mind, I believed that one day Someone (who? I'm not sure. But Someone) was going to be coming around to check up on my to make sure I had kept up with all this stuff, had shepherded it and hauled it like a good little boy.

Because. Because, when you don't have actual relationships with human beings to anchor you, that's what you do. In lieu of actual praise, you anticipate the praise that will come on that day, whenever that day comes, when Someone, whomever that is, arrives to check up and sees what a good job of hoarding and hauling you've done. Well done. Well done, thou good and faithful lummox.

Sitting in my mother's house, that scared me. That pile of stuff scared me, because I knew what it meant. Even though I didn't have the stories, the keys, to unlock all the locks, I knew what the whole thing meant.

Mom had died alone, in a town she hated, far from a family she largely no longer talked to, in a big house, surrounded by this mountain of inscrutable stuff.

I did not want that to be me.

# # #

After those four days dealing with Mom's things, Kira and I got back to Nashville and started trying to fit what we had brought home in the back seat and trunk into our apartment. Photos, mostly, and lots of artwork my mother had drawn, and all of her personal writings and correspondence was the bulk of it. I spent some weeks sorting through boxes, organizing it and getting it re-packed into manageable containers that could be stored, and hauled. It took some time, but I got it settled.

Then a new job came up, here in Memphis. Kira and I got ready to move. We tried to pare down and weed out things as we packed. We made a lot of trips to Goodwill, and had a yardsale or two. We got rid of a lot of things. It felt good.

But on moving day, I was chagrined to find that I was still not done packing all the stuff. Our plan had been to have everything ready to go, and I was not ready. Like so many times before, little things were getting shoved in boxes without good labeling or organization. Every time I looked up from the latest sealed box, I saw the pile of what was still to be packed. It seemed huge.

(Only in this hoarded span will love persevere.)

Then there was the move itself. We had budgeted for eight hours. It took closer to twelve, and that was only because I stopped caring whether the movers put things in the right place, and just told them to get the stuff off the truck as fast as they could. I helped. Neighbors and Memphis friends helped. But there was still so much stuff. So much to move. So many things.

# # #

On Christmas Eve Kira and I went to see the new George Clooney movie, Up in the Air.

I'm not going to spoil it for you, because I think you should go and see it for yourself. Because I think it's worth seeing. So I'm not going to spoil it. But I will tell you this. Part of the way through the movie, George Clooney's character, Ryan Bingham, makes a speech about a backpack.

You can get the gist of it here.

Suffice it to say that I was with Bingham through the first half of the speech. In the movie version, after he talks about putting the sofa and the furniture into the backpack, he pauses, and then asks the audience to imagine setting the pack on fire. Liberating, isn't it? Yes, it is.

Imagine waking up tomorrow with nothing. I have imagined that. And more than waking up to it, I have dreamed it. Longed for it. Mark Salvatore, surrounded by all his earthly possessions. Yes.

But then the next part of the speech (you hear them blended together in the video): put all the relationships in the backpack. Feel the weight.

Bingham's answer, get rid of it all, may or may not ultimately work for him (that's the crux of the movie; I told you I'm not going to spoil it for you. Go see it). Regardless, sitting there in the dark of the theater, I had to ask myself, just what do you want out of all this paring down anyway, Dault?

Is it to get away from everything complicated, including and especially the relationships in my life?

Maybe one day, maybe in my twenties, I would have answered yes. Not now.

# # #

The other quotation from Mark Salvatore's interview, that kept me crying there at breakfast, was when he said (look - see - I have it written down here on a notecard. I carry it with me now, in my left pocket):

"I consciously decided to lower my expenses to have a higher quality of life."

# # #

Here's what I want you to do. The next time you're at a football game, or out at the big box bookstore, or shopping for groceries, or anywhere there's a crowd, I want you to pause for a moment.

Now this is going to be a little difficult, so stay with me.

When you pause, wherever you are, for that moment, I want you - just for that moment - to imagine to yourself the death of each and every one of those people you see. Not in some ghastly way, not in an accident or a massive explosion. Just imagine the reality of them, in graves and urns, all at once. Gone. Passed. Buried.

Don't linger on it too long. Being morbid is not the point here. The point is the brute fact of it all. Each person enjoying the football game, every soccer mom buying beets in the produce aisle, every bespectacled teenager waiting for the new Harry Potter book - each of them - they are going to someday be dead and gone.

And you. And me, too.

Do you hear that sound, Mr. Anderson? That sound is... inevitability.

# # #

It wasn't the things that I wanted; I wanted to have had a relationship such that I would have known these things, and their significance. Without that relationship, the things really meant very little.

What does it mean, at the end of it all, to have had a "quality of life"? I may never get to the point where all my earthly possessions will fit around me, crosslegged on the table. That is not the point. And I hope I am never so buried by my possessions that they are, at that last breath, all that I am left with on this earth. That also, emphatically, is not the point - at least not for me.

Too much is not the point, and too little is not the point.

You are the point. You, and my mother, and my wife, and my soon-arriving child. My friends. My lovers, past and imagined. My brother. My father. My step-mother and my in laws. My cousins - even the ones I don't talk to anymore for reasons that are probably locked up somewhere in those things of my mother's that I either kept or let go. My colleagues. My students. Hell, even the folks I need to say "I'm sorry" to - even them.

The point is, in that fleeting moment of seeing where we're all headed, really and truly and inevitably, to allow yourself - just for an instant - to imagine your own death. What kind of death do you want? What, in that final breath, will be acceptable - to you - as a "quality of life"?

We're all part of that grocery store crowd. I know that. We're all goners. We're all lost. We're all going to leave such big, big holes when we go. I know that. I don't care.

You are what matters. To me. To each other. Don't forget.

Only in this hoarded span will love persevere.

An historical Rhyme

I made this up in the shower this morning. Sing to the tune of "London Bridges Falling Down":


In a duel you lost your nose
lost your nose
lost your nose
Now it's made of brass and gold
Tycho Brahe!


Don't blame me. Blame Wikipedia.

"The New Criticism"

My ruthless pen at your throat
slashing lines, across your poet face,
the clogged arteries of your words

Every surgeon is a madman

at least,
this is what I tell myself,
standing, scrubbing hands
over the scour-bare sink

Twilighting (a poem)

Birds, she
said, are crazy, little
machines of precision
amok in tandem
flightpaths of
bewilderment
and grace.