On October 12

It’s Monday afternoon, a gray and quiet one, except for the sound of the generator I've just turned on, and now it is beginning to rain, not a lot, just a passing wet whisper, darkening the deck, refreshing the chaparral, promising more. We yearn for rain here and anticipate it with pleasure. We prepare for it, too. Yesterday industrious Monte was already clearing gutters, sealing windows, climbing on the roof checking for leaks. Tomorrow I’ll go into town and buy the things we’ve lately been lacking. I like having the cupboard stocked as we head more deeply into fall.

Sometimes after it rains Jeanne and I will put on our rubber boots and go out together to check things out. If we find places on the dirt road where water is pooling, we create little tributaries, digging channels by scraping down the dirt with our boots, and diverting the water into the gully where the creek is. Sometimes, however, we make no pretense at all of being useful and simply jump around in the puddles like overgrown children, and if it's still raining a little, we open our mouths to the sky and taste it.

I am alone today and feeling contemplative. One reason is that this is the day my father died, thirty-one years ago, and although to some it is Columbus Day, for me it's a day of memory and reflection. I’ve written about it many times, maybe more than a person should, and I’ve lived with it more than half my life, but here I am, still looking at it. It was my first great loss, and I guess we get through these experiences but never quite over them.I was in Syracuse when I got that particular wake-up call. The bed I was in faced a double window through which I could see the tops of the maple trees, and their leaves were bright yellow that morning, and I remember wondering at their dissonant and alarming beauty. Then, unable to assimilate the vast fact that had suddenly been delivered to me, I focused on what actions were required. It seemed that I should first call my younger sister, who was attending school in Cortland, just a short drive to the south, and it seemed that I should tell her to be ready and I would pick her up and we would drive home to Long Island together.

It was 1978 and I was a graduate student; my car was low on gas and my purse bereft of cash. Here comes a peculiar, creepy detail I will never forget: The man who was my boyfriend then opened his wallet, pulled out a five and a one, handed them to me and said, “You can add this to the rest of what you owe me.”

Yikes.

I learned, though, that people reveal themselves most clearly in those quick moments of doing, those flickers of authenticity, be it lovely or disturbing.

And don’t worry. Most of the time, the revelatory moments I glimpse are poignant and lovely, reminding me of the humanity we share.  There are painstaking efforts, and songs sung for no one, and straight brave postures as frailty makes itself known. There's a woman’s wistful glance in the mirror as she wonders where her youth went, an elaborate favor with no return expected, small gallantries and smiles. I am surprised every day by kindness and courage.

William Stafford (again, and of course) said it well:

"I’m saved in this big world by unforeseen

friends, or times when only a glance

from a passenger beside me, or just the tired

branch of a willow inclining toward earth,

may teach me how to join earth and sky."

Amen.

And on this day, October 12, I salute my father once again. If I know anything about decency and duty, it’s because he lived his life that way, and if my heart is a place where hope still thrives, it’s because he put a lot of love in there.

It's hard sometimes for faith to coexist with so many inconsistencies and unanswerable questions, but I think it can and does. And I figure that even if you just put one foot in front of the other, eventually you are on some sort of journey. There are times when searching is almost like finding.

In the meanwhile, I hope nothing that happens makes you hard or mean. Let's try to be the antidote.