Sunday Musings – July 8, 2018
In many respects, it was a very routine week in my tiny corner of the world. I saw and talked to friends, met with clients, wrote, and began to plan for an upcoming trip to Seattle where I will join my son and his girlfriend for a brief visit. The week was intersected by the day set aside in the United States to celebrate Independence Day; a day of mixed emotions for many of us who are both thankful to be gifted with being citizens of these United States and profoundly sad that, in so many respects, we, as a country, have barely begun to come to terms with the ongoing myth that “all men are created equal” is a reality if one just works hard enough and obeys all the social mores. It is certainly true that as a male who is assumed to be mostly Caucasian I have enjoyed many privileges. It is even true that as gay male I am increasingly afforded the privileges which have historically only been given to heterosexual, Caucasian males. Yet, there is today a very active group of individuals who would reinstitute some of the old restrictions.
July 4th is, for me, and, I am sure, many others a time to take personal inventory of how I contribute or fail to contribute to making “all men (and women) are created equal” more than a nice sounding costume to wear in public. When I want to do a more thorough personal inventory I start with cleaning my house. How well I do this becomes a metaphor for how honest I am with an emotional and spiritual inventory. By the evening of Independence Day, I was ready to join many members of the community for a performance of the Wheeling Symphony Orchestra on the banks of the Ohio river.
I woke Thursday morning a little more present and with a renewed commitment to be a healing presence; hopefully a little more able to love unconditionally and, thus, more honest about how self-serving my thoughts and behavior often are.
It was not long before I received a call from my sister Pat that our brother-in-law, the husband of our sister Bonnie for 61 years and seven months, had died. He had been increasingly limited in what he could do. In fact, he recently came home from the hospital under the care of his loving wife, my sister, and the staff of hospice. He was able to join in the celebration of his wife’s 80th birthday recently, although it was clear that all activity wore him out. He, Bonnie, our sister Pat and I had all enjoyed a visit with our brother Ed and his wife Flo in mid-May. Bonnie had remarked that it might be the last time Carl could make the trip. Still, after 61 years and seven months of marriage it was difficult to imagine that they would one day face the end. In fact, all of us, including our sister Tamara who was not with us for that last gathering knew that as we all approach our eighties that it is not likely that we would live forever. I suppose that I have always hoped that I would be the first to die so that I did not have to say goodbye. Yet, that was not to be.
My sister and Carl have taken good care of each other for all these years. Recently it appeared that Bonnie was more of the caretaker, but in truth, Carl was still also her rock.
So today, I am in Tulsa and will soon head out to Bonnie’s house and for the first time find it missing the rock. In many ways, he was a rock to many in the family including our mother. When no one else could bring a smile or a sense of peace to our mother Carl could.
In the end, we are always reminded that we only have today to love as best we can; to do our part in getting a little closer to crafting a world in which “all men (and women) are created equal” a bit closer to reality. Thanks to Carl for his loving presence in our family and for the example of love which the marriage of he and Bonnie demonstrated. I am not, by any means, suggesting that either any of them are ready for sainthood. To suggest that would be to deny that life, even in a loving relationship, is tough at times. Still, some seem to keep it simpler than others.
Written July 7, 2018
In many respects, it was a very routine week in my tiny corner of the world. I saw and talked to friends, met with clients, wrote, and began to plan for an upcoming trip to Seattle where I will join my son and his girlfriend for a brief visit. The week was intersected by the day set aside in the United States to celebrate Independence Day; a day of mixed emotions for many of us who are both thankful to be gifted with being citizens of these United States and profoundly sad that, in so many respects, we, as a country, have barely begun to come to terms with the ongoing myth that “all men are created equal” is a reality if one just works hard enough and obeys all the social mores. It is certainly true that as a male who is assumed to be mostly Caucasian I have enjoyed many privileges. It is even true that as gay male I am increasingly afforded the privileges which have historically only been given to heterosexual, Caucasian males. Yet, there is today a very active group of individuals who would reinstitute some of the old restrictions.
July 4th is, for me, and, I am sure, many others a time to take personal inventory of how I contribute or fail to contribute to making “all men (and women) are created equal” more than a nice sounding costume to wear in public. When I want to do a more thorough personal inventory I start with cleaning my house. How well I do this becomes a metaphor for how honest I am with an emotional and spiritual inventory. By the evening of Independence Day, I was ready to join many members of the community for a performance of the Wheeling Symphony Orchestra on the banks of the Ohio river.
I woke Thursday morning a little more present and with a renewed commitment to be a healing presence; hopefully a little more able to love unconditionally and, thus, more honest about how self-serving my thoughts and behavior often are.
It was not long before I received a call from my sister Pat that our brother-in-law, the husband of our sister Bonnie for 61 years and seven months, had died. He had been increasingly limited in what he could do. In fact, he recently came home from the hospital under the care of his loving wife, my sister, and the staff of hospice. He was able to join in the celebration of his wife’s 80th birthday recently, although it was clear that all activity wore him out. He, Bonnie, our sister Pat and I had all enjoyed a visit with our brother Ed and his wife Flo in mid-May. Bonnie had remarked that it might be the last time Carl could make the trip. Still, after 61 years and seven months of marriage it was difficult to imagine that they would one day face the end. In fact, all of us, including our sister Tamara who was not with us for that last gathering knew that as we all approach our eighties that it is not likely that we would live forever. I suppose that I have always hoped that I would be the first to die so that I did not have to say goodbye. Yet, that was not to be.
My sister and Carl have taken good care of each other for all these years. Recently it appeared that Bonnie was more of the caretaker, but in truth, Carl was still also her rock.
So today, I am in Tulsa and will soon head out to Bonnie’s house and for the first time find it missing the rock. In many ways, he was a rock to many in the family including our mother. When no one else could bring a smile or a sense of peace to our mother Carl could.
In the end, we are always reminded that we only have today to love as best we can; to do our part in getting a little closer to crafting a world in which “all men (and women) are created equal” a bit closer to reality. Thanks to Carl for his loving presence in our family and for the example of love which the marriage of he and Bonnie demonstrated. I am not, by any means, suggesting that either any of them are ready for sainthood. To suggest that would be to deny that life, even in a loving relationship, is tough at times. Still, some seem to keep it simpler than others.
Written July 7, 2018
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