past

MISTAKES, MISGIVINGS, AND MOTIVATIONS: III

face roadmap

As he realized, there was no explanation and searching for answers to the puzzle that the past posed, he found none.  With the past in his pocket, there was only the unknown, the future left to pack.  And as he folded and flipped the future a new realization dawned: it was not his own.

“The future is not ours…”, he thought out loud.  “The future belongs to no one; it is, in fact, nothing.”  As the thought settled in his head he reached for another piece to pack and found that there was always something to put into his bag, into his pocket to become the tear-soaked past.

“Something out of nothing is the truth; finally!  The Truth!!”

And what of meaning and these dangerous days of wonder and worry.  There will come more mistakes and more misgivings, but of what?  And about what?  If the future is truly nothing, than we are left with the pocket full of past and the present that we cannot notice.  Are we truly slaves to the limits of time or are we burdened with the freedom of space?

Philosophical nonsense made meaningless by poetry and prose, by literature and leitmotifs.  And as these thoughts ran through his head, the responsibilities that he had once believed he had had continued to create something that was never his.  Picking up his empty bag and feeling the weight in his pocket, he turned to go.

This Old Hat

old hats

I have an old hat that a friend of mine used to wear.  Now it’s faded and the threads are starting to wear thin.  I’ve washed it a few times, always by hand, but every time I wash it, it seems to get weaker.  My friend, Turid, was from Norway.  She died a few years back of a brain tumor.  When her hair fell out she wore this hat to keep her head warm.  Now I wear it to keep my head warm.

I can’t say that it’s the best looking of hats.  It was bought in the airport in Oslo; kind of a last minute thought.  It’s come a long way from the rack in an airport kiosk.  It is probably my favorite hat, but when I wear it there are many that make fun of me.

“You look like a fisherman in that hat!” they’ll say.

Or, “That’s kinda funky…”

Or, “Have you thought about buying another hat?!”

I smile; they mean no harm.  But, I think of what they’d say if I told them the story of Turid and the hat.  I never do, because I learned from Turi to never say anything that might make people feel bad, if you don’t have to.

I suppose that I could quit wearing the hat and put it up in a special place, a box or frame, to remember her by.  But I’m fairly certain that she would frown upon such a scheme.  “A hat is to be worn…” she might say, “So, wear the hat!”  And I do.

Of course, I’m attached to the hat; it means a lot for obvious reasons, but it has come to stand for more than it means.  I am committed to the hat, one may say.  There are new, and better hats, but none quite so good as this one.  There are warmer hats, and hats that cover my ears on cold days, but none quite so comforting as this hat.

Turid died some years ago, but I had the pleasure of meeting her parents in Bergen Norway, as well as her children.  Her parents made a mark on me; a mark that people rarely make.  They were honest and sincere, and we hit it off right off the bat.  They had dignity and integrity; they had character and were committed.  They were set in ways, not because of tradition, but because the ways were trustworthy, practical, and utilitarian: they are simply right.

Although I only met them for a few hours one night, Turid’s mother hugged me (very un-Norwegian), and told me to take care of Gunnar (Turid’s husband, also a good friend of mine).  Her father showed me his old woodworking bench, worn by years of use.  He, like I have become, was committed.

So, the hat and I have a history and it has become a part of my history.  I love this old, ugly hat but in a way that only those who understand the importance of committing one’s self to something inherently good can do.  I think it’s funny how some cheap, stitched up airport hat can become a treasure and I wonder about those who make a treasure out of things they are not committed to.  This old hat has at least taught me that, and it keeps my head warm enough for all that.

Nothing But the Spring

future

The fall is coming and with the coming cold, change. The bees are readying the hive for winter; the garden is beginning to show signs of age. Harvest continues but the nights are getting a bit colder and the mornings are darker. Change is a cold reality as it is a reminder that all that we hold dear is temporary, and the seasons continue to march on, counted only by us.

I am reminded of the cycles of the seasons, of life in general. When I was young these cycles were nothing more than an old wife’s tale. But when I began to notice my own age, these cycles began to become recognizable from years before. The cycle of seasons became the cycles of life: Spring, Summer, Fall, and finally Winter.

It is almost as if all change is the same. It begins as an exciting possibility and grows into a busy reality becoming the aches and pains in the morning, the nematodes in the soil, the repairs on the house, the mileage on the equipment and on myself, the goals achieved and the dreams that never were. These things are not bad, but simply the reality of living. Things wear out, ideas disappear and so do we.

As I get older I begin to notice that my parents are old.   This realization is painful and soon I am reminded of the relentless seasons not only by my own age but also by the needs of my parents. The child becomes the parent. This too is the cycle of the seasons. Winter comes for us all and all the while I think of nothing but the spring.