The Curse
"i do have some bad news for you. if you hold to the standards that i believe you do (you were a cadet after all), you will never be happy with your level of success. you will always think you can do more. you will always be looking for the next big thing. sorry! there is only one time when the quest is over and that is when you are… well… dead. not sure that is all that much to look forward to?"
--- george hopkins
This quote is eerily, eerily accurate. Almost depressingly so.
April 29, 2008
April 20, 2008
Grief
Grief is most often used as a term describing the effects of losing a loved one. Someone close to you passes, be it family, friend, or lover, and it is said you will work through the stages of grief. Different people experience and express grief in all different manners; in general, however, we all know the main stages of the process. We all know that people go from one stage to the next, ultimately seeking to find acceptance and the ability to push forward again. Despite the hole they might feel, the love that was lost, or the companionship they miss, most people eventually find a way to go on.
I guess what I'm realizing is that grief and the process behind it don't just apply to the loss of someone you love, specifically. They can apply to the loss of anything. At the moment, I feel what I'm working to overcome is the grief of losing this time in our lives. Never again will all of us be in this place, with each other, as who we are. Never again will you be the person you are right now ... for better, worse, or indifferent, you will never be the same.
Some of my high school friends and I stay in contact now. We mostly talk online, sending quick messages or thoughts every once in a blue moon. I'm even in the same situation with a lot of my Lehigh friends who have already graduated. Life rolls on, and even when we see one another again, even if it's in the same haunts and with the same group- it's just not the same. The thing that is different is us, individually and collectively. There's no way to go back and be the way we were.
As life passes like this, it also comes with mistakes, some with no chance for redemption. Each mistake, however, comes with the opportunity to move forward with that much knowledge at your disposal. In addition to the failure of time, I thus grieve for the fact that there is no way to retrieve time which has already passed. I grieve for those mistakes and the consequences they have brought about, as well as the minor missteps along the way. I grieve for the chances I never took and the opportunities I may have squandered or never realized.
The most important part of these revelations is that, as with all grief, I must also come to realize that these feelings are okay. Despite the pain, loss, regret, or other emotions that recent changes have spurred in me, I must know that they are a part of life. As my grandfather says, you have to live each day as if the best is still to come. Get up with a purpose. Wake each morning with the deliberate goal of working through the feelings you feel. Trust in the future, and in yourself.
It's okay to be sad. It's okay to miss the friends and loved ones who are leaving even before they're gone. It's also okay to look back on the last four years and wonder what you might have done differently, if given the chance. But you can't go around those feelings ... you have to go through them. There is no secret to escaping them. Not in the bottom of a bottle, or in giving in to temptation, or in forsaking those things which once gave you purpose. Trying to get out those ways is easy- but you'll ultimately never get anywhere.
Tonight I ponder and sleep. Tomorrow, I will watch the dawning of a new day ... and begin to push forward.
Live each day as if the best is yet to come.
Grief is most often used as a term describing the effects of losing a loved one. Someone close to you passes, be it family, friend, or lover, and it is said you will work through the stages of grief. Different people experience and express grief in all different manners; in general, however, we all know the main stages of the process. We all know that people go from one stage to the next, ultimately seeking to find acceptance and the ability to push forward again. Despite the hole they might feel, the love that was lost, or the companionship they miss, most people eventually find a way to go on.
I guess what I'm realizing is that grief and the process behind it don't just apply to the loss of someone you love, specifically. They can apply to the loss of anything. At the moment, I feel what I'm working to overcome is the grief of losing this time in our lives. Never again will all of us be in this place, with each other, as who we are. Never again will you be the person you are right now ... for better, worse, or indifferent, you will never be the same.
Some of my high school friends and I stay in contact now. We mostly talk online, sending quick messages or thoughts every once in a blue moon. I'm even in the same situation with a lot of my Lehigh friends who have already graduated. Life rolls on, and even when we see one another again, even if it's in the same haunts and with the same group- it's just not the same. The thing that is different is us, individually and collectively. There's no way to go back and be the way we were.
As life passes like this, it also comes with mistakes, some with no chance for redemption. Each mistake, however, comes with the opportunity to move forward with that much knowledge at your disposal. In addition to the failure of time, I thus grieve for the fact that there is no way to retrieve time which has already passed. I grieve for those mistakes and the consequences they have brought about, as well as the minor missteps along the way. I grieve for the chances I never took and the opportunities I may have squandered or never realized.
The most important part of these revelations is that, as with all grief, I must also come to realize that these feelings are okay. Despite the pain, loss, regret, or other emotions that recent changes have spurred in me, I must know that they are a part of life. As my grandfather says, you have to live each day as if the best is still to come. Get up with a purpose. Wake each morning with the deliberate goal of working through the feelings you feel. Trust in the future, and in yourself.
It's okay to be sad. It's okay to miss the friends and loved ones who are leaving even before they're gone. It's also okay to look back on the last four years and wonder what you might have done differently, if given the chance. But you can't go around those feelings ... you have to go through them. There is no secret to escaping them. Not in the bottom of a bottle, or in giving in to temptation, or in forsaking those things which once gave you purpose. Trying to get out those ways is easy- but you'll ultimately never get anywhere.
Tonight I ponder and sleep. Tomorrow, I will watch the dawning of a new day ... and begin to push forward.
Live each day as if the best is yet to come.
April 13, 2008
Hero
"I'm not afraid of dying, Jer. I just don't want to leave you guys behind."
My father said that to me on the phone about two months ago, when he was first diagnosed with cancer. I immediately told him not to think like that ... he had a very treatable form of cancer, he had caught it very early, and the doctors were on top of it. Nothing could go wrong. I said that I knew he was going through a really hard time, being trapped in the house alone all day with thoughts like that, but he didn't have to worry. He was going to be around a long while yet.
My dad seemed to calm down a little bit after that. The next week the doctors found that his cancer hadn't spread- by March they had scheduled his surgery. This Thursday they'll be removing it from his body, hopefully for good, during a routine operation being performed by one of the best surgeons in Philadelphia.
It was a cold, rainy night when I had that conversation with him. At first what he said took me aback. I didn't know how to respond. This was my father ... the man I've spent my entire life trying to be, trying to make proud of me. He would always be around, wouldn't he? He'd watch my brother and I graduate from college. He would help us move into our first houses, see us get our first jobs. He would be standing ten feet away when we both eventually married. He'd be in the waiting room or on the phone when our children were born, hanging on the news that he was a grandfather and probably wishing he hadn't quit smoking back in his 30's.
Later that night, laying in bed, I cried over the conversation we'd had. Until it actually comes to stare you in the face and the possibility becomes real, I suppose many of us don't think about the mortality of our parents. Most of us have already lost an older member of our family. Those of us who haven't can probably at least attest to watching someone grow into an older, frailer form of themselves as the years have gone by. But your parents ... well, they're your parents. At least to me. Where would they ever go?
I'm going home this Thursday to be with them when the surgery happens. It's a routine operation. The only possibility of complications comes from my dad's tendency to bleed fairly heavily (a fact which I told the doctor could probably be attributed to his intense gin drinking). My dad will be recovering by Thursday night and back to his regular self by mid May or so at the latest. He'll be sitting in the bleachers of Goodman Stadium as I graduate in a little over a month. I'll hug him when we take family pictures after the ceremony. And for now, there'll be no more need to think of when he won't be there.
Someday, nearly all of us will eventually see the passing of our families before our eyes. The parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and others you grew up with, and who had such an impact on your life, will be gone from this world. The most important thing you can do, in my mind, is make sure you let them know you love them even if they already know, in whatever way your family shows that kind of thing.
I love my dad. I'm who I am and where I am today because of everything he's done and sacrificed in the last 22 years. In my eyes, there is no greater man on this earth, and making him proud has been my foremost goal throughout the entirety of the last decade. I'm happy that he's going to be around for a long time yet ... and now, I think I'm starting to understand that it will be okay if a long time doesn't mean forever. I'll miss him-
the man who taught me how to play catch even though I was never any good at sports
the man who sat through too many high school football games so that he could see me conduct the marching band as many times as he could
the man who, despite not understanding jazz, could tell that our trombones were so much better than our trumpets year after year
the man who drove me to and from every Cadets audition, practice, and rehearsal the entire season
the man who worked 15 hours a day so that my family could live well
and now, the man who makes up cookies every single time we come home, and times it so that they're still warm when we walk in
I'll miss him when he's gone. We all will. But I'm sure he knows we love him, and that we'll take care of each other. If I had to pick one thing to tell him that maybe he didn't know, it'd be the same thing he's told me so many times. I want to make sure he knows that, someday, I hope my children can look at me the same way I look at him. That they can know the things I do are for them. That I'm proud of them. Quite simply, I want to make sure my dad knows he's done a great job ... and that if I could live up to be anyone in the world, it would be him.
Anyway, thanks for reading this one, if you did ... it means a lot to me.
Happy Sunday, everybody.
"I'm not afraid of dying, Jer. I just don't want to leave you guys behind."
My father said that to me on the phone about two months ago, when he was first diagnosed with cancer. I immediately told him not to think like that ... he had a very treatable form of cancer, he had caught it very early, and the doctors were on top of it. Nothing could go wrong. I said that I knew he was going through a really hard time, being trapped in the house alone all day with thoughts like that, but he didn't have to worry. He was going to be around a long while yet.
My dad seemed to calm down a little bit after that. The next week the doctors found that his cancer hadn't spread- by March they had scheduled his surgery. This Thursday they'll be removing it from his body, hopefully for good, during a routine operation being performed by one of the best surgeons in Philadelphia.
It was a cold, rainy night when I had that conversation with him. At first what he said took me aback. I didn't know how to respond. This was my father ... the man I've spent my entire life trying to be, trying to make proud of me. He would always be around, wouldn't he? He'd watch my brother and I graduate from college. He would help us move into our first houses, see us get our first jobs. He would be standing ten feet away when we both eventually married. He'd be in the waiting room or on the phone when our children were born, hanging on the news that he was a grandfather and probably wishing he hadn't quit smoking back in his 30's.
Later that night, laying in bed, I cried over the conversation we'd had. Until it actually comes to stare you in the face and the possibility becomes real, I suppose many of us don't think about the mortality of our parents. Most of us have already lost an older member of our family. Those of us who haven't can probably at least attest to watching someone grow into an older, frailer form of themselves as the years have gone by. But your parents ... well, they're your parents. At least to me. Where would they ever go?
I'm going home this Thursday to be with them when the surgery happens. It's a routine operation. The only possibility of complications comes from my dad's tendency to bleed fairly heavily (a fact which I told the doctor could probably be attributed to his intense gin drinking). My dad will be recovering by Thursday night and back to his regular self by mid May or so at the latest. He'll be sitting in the bleachers of Goodman Stadium as I graduate in a little over a month. I'll hug him when we take family pictures after the ceremony. And for now, there'll be no more need to think of when he won't be there.
Someday, nearly all of us will eventually see the passing of our families before our eyes. The parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and others you grew up with, and who had such an impact on your life, will be gone from this world. The most important thing you can do, in my mind, is make sure you let them know you love them even if they already know, in whatever way your family shows that kind of thing.
I love my dad. I'm who I am and where I am today because of everything he's done and sacrificed in the last 22 years. In my eyes, there is no greater man on this earth, and making him proud has been my foremost goal throughout the entirety of the last decade. I'm happy that he's going to be around for a long time yet ... and now, I think I'm starting to understand that it will be okay if a long time doesn't mean forever. I'll miss him-
the man who taught me how to play catch even though I was never any good at sports
the man who sat through too many high school football games so that he could see me conduct the marching band as many times as he could
the man who, despite not understanding jazz, could tell that our trombones were so much better than our trumpets year after year
the man who drove me to and from every Cadets audition, practice, and rehearsal the entire season
the man who worked 15 hours a day so that my family could live well
and now, the man who makes up cookies every single time we come home, and times it so that they're still warm when we walk in
I'll miss him when he's gone. We all will. But I'm sure he knows we love him, and that we'll take care of each other. If I had to pick one thing to tell him that maybe he didn't know, it'd be the same thing he's told me so many times. I want to make sure he knows that, someday, I hope my children can look at me the same way I look at him. That they can know the things I do are for them. That I'm proud of them. Quite simply, I want to make sure my dad knows he's done a great job ... and that if I could live up to be anyone in the world, it would be him.
Anyway, thanks for reading this one, if you did ... it means a lot to me.
Happy Sunday, everybody.
April 06, 2008
24 Hours - The Night I
11:00 PM
We file into the church and it's already 1,000 degrees. The old sanctuary hasn't been retrofitted with a successful air conditioning system since its construction in 1495. As a result, the 200 old people and 400,000 candles that line the pews make for a fairly uncomfortable atmosphere, to say the least. Fortunately, the suit and tie I'm wearing will be able to absorb a copious amount of sweat before leaking through. At least that's some consolation.
My uncle, aunt, and grandparents are already there to greet my family. Poppop is wearing the same suit he does every year. It seems my brother won the bet over my grandmother's sweater- he bet red, I bet green. I always forget that she likes to match the flowers. For some reason the heat hasn't seemed to affect any of them. It makes you wonder, really. How do old people survive at such temperatures? It's like they're covered in titanium shelling.
We file in and jump into the same order we always do in the Herman-Walsh aisle. My uncle and aunt are at the far right end, followed to the left by Dad, Mom, my brother, me, my grandmother, and my grandfather. We've come to time our arrival so perfectly that we only wait about 90 seconds for the service to start. In our minds, there's no sense arriving too early and greeting the old people we can't remember. As interesting as Mrs. Rhimathy's stories about her cats are, well ... frankly, they're not that interesting.
The Pastor stands up and begins the welcome to the service. He's the same old Pastor with the same old greeting and same old parables about the holiday. His voice is far too soothing and well fitted to the warm sanctuary; even despite the coffee I chugged, I can feel myself going. I actually get excited when it's time to sing the first hymn- the standing will surely wake me out of this stupor. That's when I remember the same thing every year. The hymns are so slow that it's actually possible to fall asleep standing up. The only thing keeping me awake at this point are the cramps falling out of my back muscles. Who's idea was it to build pews out of hard wood, arched forward ... Jesus.
And so the service rolls on for a whole 55 minutes. My brother and I have exhausted our supply of scratch paper, and the excitement of tossing a dollar into the collection plate was lost a scant 18 years ago. I've mocked the trumpet player/organist duet about 15 times. My grandmother has asked me to quiet down. I'm also fairly certain that I've lost enough moisture from sweating that I'm moments away from hallucinating my way into a spiritual journey. Why the hell do we do this every year?
Suddenly the lights go down. Candles are passed around with an efficiency that once again belies the many years this church has held this service. The heat hasn't dissipated, but for some reason seems more appropriate and fitting in the darkness. I sit up to get a better view of what's about to happen. Even my brother and father, usually the two most stolid members of the family, take a newfound interest in the proceedings. My grandmother has noticeably taken a set of tissues out of her purse. Maybe this will be the year she doesn't cry, but I doubt it.
At a subtle and theatrical pace, a man stands up from the choir and reaches the altar. He pauses there for a moment, looking out past the congregation toward the back of the church. He is obviously intense. His eyes reveal a focus learned from many performances and songs having been sung in his lifetime. The opening notes- the same familiar arpeggios, played ever so softly- begin to rise and fall in the darkness around him. At the last moment before he begins, a smirk forms in the corner of his mouth.
I smile too, as my uncle takes his first breath into the song that will announce the beginning of Christmas. It's 11:56 ... right on time.
His strong tenor voice, well learned in the ways of stage projection, rebounds off the walls with a sudden excitement. The congregation experiences a visible jolt out of the comatose sobriety they had been falling into the last hour. Even the opening words, sung at a comparatively soft timbre and volume, have already entranced everyone watching. As always, it's easy to see that my uncle is good at what he does. Very good.
The song continues in its rolling, oscillating melodies from low to high, soft to loud, contemplative to joyful and back again. The underlying but consistent crescendo moves the hearts of those listening as their emotions follow the words of the hymn. My grandmother has begun to cry- looks like my brother won this bet, too. I thought she would at least make it to the second verse this year. Damn.
Finally the song reaches its peak. Tension builds- we all the know the melody, and despite my uncle's proficiency we always doubt whether or not that top note will come out. An octave jump to the top of your range requires a hell of a level of skill, even for the best performers. He sings closer to the note, ever louder, ever more passionate, ever more beautiful, until finally he goes for it-
And then my uncle is singing the final "Noel" as loud and high as he can. The raw power of his emotion and voice burst through the church and congregation around us. Both my mother and grandmother are crying now, and my own eyes are moist with the meaning of the moment. He holds the note, and holds, until suddenly he lets go. An infinitely long second of silence follows, his voice echoing through the arches above us. The organ comes back in, my uncle sings the final words, and then the song is over. He departs the altar without a word.
The Pastor rises slowly, stands before the congregation, and opens his arms. "It is 12:01 in the morning. A Merry Christmas to you all- may the love and guidance of our Lord embrace you and all whom you love on this day. Go in peace."
The cool night air outside the church is the most soothing sensation I've ever experienced. It always seems to be a clear night on Christmas Eve, and the stars shine against the night. We say goodnight to the family, congratulate my uncle, and jump back in the car for the ride home.
I'm not a very religious person, and for the most part I'm not moved by organized religion of any kind. Seeing my uncle sing on Christmas Eve, though, and watching my family come together for just those few minutes at the end of the service as his voice rises and falls ... well, hell. I guess we all believe in something, don't we?
12:10 AM
11:00 PM
We file into the church and it's already 1,000 degrees. The old sanctuary hasn't been retrofitted with a successful air conditioning system since its construction in 1495. As a result, the 200 old people and 400,000 candles that line the pews make for a fairly uncomfortable atmosphere, to say the least. Fortunately, the suit and tie I'm wearing will be able to absorb a copious amount of sweat before leaking through. At least that's some consolation.
My uncle, aunt, and grandparents are already there to greet my family. Poppop is wearing the same suit he does every year. It seems my brother won the bet over my grandmother's sweater- he bet red, I bet green. I always forget that she likes to match the flowers. For some reason the heat hasn't seemed to affect any of them. It makes you wonder, really. How do old people survive at such temperatures? It's like they're covered in titanium shelling.
We file in and jump into the same order we always do in the Herman-Walsh aisle. My uncle and aunt are at the far right end, followed to the left by Dad, Mom, my brother, me, my grandmother, and my grandfather. We've come to time our arrival so perfectly that we only wait about 90 seconds for the service to start. In our minds, there's no sense arriving too early and greeting the old people we can't remember. As interesting as Mrs. Rhimathy's stories about her cats are, well ... frankly, they're not that interesting.
The Pastor stands up and begins the welcome to the service. He's the same old Pastor with the same old greeting and same old parables about the holiday. His voice is far too soothing and well fitted to the warm sanctuary; even despite the coffee I chugged, I can feel myself going. I actually get excited when it's time to sing the first hymn- the standing will surely wake me out of this stupor. That's when I remember the same thing every year. The hymns are so slow that it's actually possible to fall asleep standing up. The only thing keeping me awake at this point are the cramps falling out of my back muscles. Who's idea was it to build pews out of hard wood, arched forward ... Jesus.
And so the service rolls on for a whole 55 minutes. My brother and I have exhausted our supply of scratch paper, and the excitement of tossing a dollar into the collection plate was lost a scant 18 years ago. I've mocked the trumpet player/organist duet about 15 times. My grandmother has asked me to quiet down. I'm also fairly certain that I've lost enough moisture from sweating that I'm moments away from hallucinating my way into a spiritual journey. Why the hell do we do this every year?
Suddenly the lights go down. Candles are passed around with an efficiency that once again belies the many years this church has held this service. The heat hasn't dissipated, but for some reason seems more appropriate and fitting in the darkness. I sit up to get a better view of what's about to happen. Even my brother and father, usually the two most stolid members of the family, take a newfound interest in the proceedings. My grandmother has noticeably taken a set of tissues out of her purse. Maybe this will be the year she doesn't cry, but I doubt it.
At a subtle and theatrical pace, a man stands up from the choir and reaches the altar. He pauses there for a moment, looking out past the congregation toward the back of the church. He is obviously intense. His eyes reveal a focus learned from many performances and songs having been sung in his lifetime. The opening notes- the same familiar arpeggios, played ever so softly- begin to rise and fall in the darkness around him. At the last moment before he begins, a smirk forms in the corner of his mouth.
I smile too, as my uncle takes his first breath into the song that will announce the beginning of Christmas. It's 11:56 ... right on time.
His strong tenor voice, well learned in the ways of stage projection, rebounds off the walls with a sudden excitement. The congregation experiences a visible jolt out of the comatose sobriety they had been falling into the last hour. Even the opening words, sung at a comparatively soft timbre and volume, have already entranced everyone watching. As always, it's easy to see that my uncle is good at what he does. Very good.
The song continues in its rolling, oscillating melodies from low to high, soft to loud, contemplative to joyful and back again. The underlying but consistent crescendo moves the hearts of those listening as their emotions follow the words of the hymn. My grandmother has begun to cry- looks like my brother won this bet, too. I thought she would at least make it to the second verse this year. Damn.
Finally the song reaches its peak. Tension builds- we all the know the melody, and despite my uncle's proficiency we always doubt whether or not that top note will come out. An octave jump to the top of your range requires a hell of a level of skill, even for the best performers. He sings closer to the note, ever louder, ever more passionate, ever more beautiful, until finally he goes for it-
And then my uncle is singing the final "Noel" as loud and high as he can. The raw power of his emotion and voice burst through the church and congregation around us. Both my mother and grandmother are crying now, and my own eyes are moist with the meaning of the moment. He holds the note, and holds, until suddenly he lets go. An infinitely long second of silence follows, his voice echoing through the arches above us. The organ comes back in, my uncle sings the final words, and then the song is over. He departs the altar without a word.
The Pastor rises slowly, stands before the congregation, and opens his arms. "It is 12:01 in the morning. A Merry Christmas to you all- may the love and guidance of our Lord embrace you and all whom you love on this day. Go in peace."
The cool night air outside the church is the most soothing sensation I've ever experienced. It always seems to be a clear night on Christmas Eve, and the stars shine against the night. We say goodnight to the family, congratulate my uncle, and jump back in the car for the ride home.
I'm not a very religious person, and for the most part I'm not moved by organized religion of any kind. Seeing my uncle sing on Christmas Eve, though, and watching my family come together for just those few minutes at the end of the service as his voice rises and falls ... well, hell. I guess we all believe in something, don't we?
12:10 AM
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