Seeking Light Inside my Head

I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting lately. Out West, it’s usually late at night after the sun has set and the mountains are outlined in gray and black. Back in Minnesota, it reverses itself and I find my reflective thoughts nudging out the bird songs and early morning dew on the grass.

What do I want to do with the rest of my life and is Eighty-One too late to start? Two questions with no concrete answers for either one. What I am sure of is that I’d rather be happy at the miles traveled rather than look back at the many stumbles encountered. It took me a lifetime to get here with no shortcuts but plenty of detours along the way. If one were to review the well over 600 blogs I’ve written, one would surely find a discernable pattern of reflective thoughts there. Over the years, I’ve discovered special spots here and there for those reflective thoughts.

One of my first places to take in the wonder of beauty around me was discovered while traversing one of the many steep switch-back mountain trails in my backyard. A flat rock, perfect for resting my backpack and tired limbs, gave me pause before continuing my climb to the top.

The panoramic views brought a state of enlightenment to my strenuous climbs and descents among the canyons and switch-backs that surround me here in the desert.

Nestled among the orange and lemon trees, two old worn out Adirondack chairs hid me from the golfers passing by and the birds romancing in the branches above. It’s a place to settle down with my coffee, tablet and open mind for the sights and sounds and smells that abound there. All of these quiet nature-made pews stimulate an appreciation for my life thus far. Of course, there are always mental nay-sayers along the way.

Unfortunately, what’s working against me is my German Catholic upbringing. Too much allegiance to the man of the cloth along with his sisters-in-kind. Their word was sacred and final and all too often wrong in all the right places. Emotions and feelings were a sign of weakness and our elders often preached that ‘children should be seen and not heard.’

What’s working in my favor is my German Catholic upbringing. There was always a focus on hard work, material sacrifice and a subtle but unmistakable desire to get ahead. Past generations would often describe it (and usually disparagingly) as ‘rising above your raisin.’ My mother led by example, not words or lectures. It was a subtle message but well received by my sister and I.

What I’ve stumbled across in my old age (relatively speaking) is the ability to see my luck (through the fog of daily life) in whom I married, my kids, and my grandkids. If there is a legacy to be left behind, I guess they’re mine.

I’ve been most fortunate with my health, managing my cerebral curiosity and how I’ve chosen to live my life on a daily basis. There’s been a real outburst of writing projects over the last several years that has surprised even me.

            Trying to write music for several of my plays.

            Getting my plays produced beyond the five already there.

            Getting my children’s book ‘Waleed, the Skinny Hippo’ in front of more kids.

            Exploring the idea of a graphic novel for ‘Sweetpea & the Gang.’

            Marketing two movie scripts to the right contacts in Hollywood.

            Toying with the idea of a concept album of my own music.

At this stage of the game, the one and only truth that counts for me is simply that: Health is Wealth. I’ve been incredibly lucky thus far.

Leaving the comfort of home for the rough, unknown of a mountain trek opens one up for all kinds of cerebral explorations. Early morning or late-night rendezvous with nature does the same trick with your head. It all comes down to not knowing what you’ll find and not caring. Just enjoying the serenity and peace and calm of mother nature. And luckily reflecting on a life well-lived.

Into The Deep

I suppose you could call it reflecting, reliving, or reclaiming your past. I guess I’d simply describe it as reflecting on my life through my rearview mirror.

For many years I considered mind games such as ‘what if…’ and ‘but if not for…’ to be exercises in futility. They were simply excuses to ponder one’s history and guess what might have happened back where and when. It was nothing more than living in the past. Now I see it differently.

My most recent publishing effort, although not completed yet, proves a wonderful example of this. After a lifetime of dancing around the edges, I’m finally ready to release my first steps into the world of writing, some fifty-plus years after the fact.

This new career of mine as a writer began with a collection of poems written back in my dark ages; cold, confusing and offering but a glimmer of what might lie ahead. But even before those vernacular camping exercises, there were some tantalizing clues along the way.

Photo courtesy of Jerry Hoffman

The voices first came whispering to me in the early morning hours before the rest of the world was awake. With a satchel of newspapers strung over my shoulder, there were miles to trudge before breakfast. The parables came in music and song and words of wisdom that no one else had bothered to share with me. They spoke of wondrous things that filled my malleable mind of twelve with dreams of imaginary places.

The messages came through a salmon-colored transistor radio, one of the first to be sold in my town. In summertime, it hung from my shoulder and shouted great songs into my ears. During the bitterly cold winter months, it was buried beneath layers of clothing but with enough volume to etch through the layers and still reach my ears.

Photo courtesy of Jerry Hoffman

In a world devoid of parental guidance and direction, the words spoken carried tremendous weight. It was a world of someplace else. It was cool cars and hot chicks. It was love gone wrong and finding the girl of my dreams. It was us against them. It was a whole new world opening up right before my ears. It was a language that spoke to me. A language I understood while most adults didn’t.  I got it. They didn’t have a clue. I knew what cool was even though cool was out of the realm of my placid existence.

Photo courtesy of Jerry Hoffman

The words and music continued on as I grew and changed and grabbed hold of my vapid future whatever that was at the time. It carried me through grade school, high school, and beyond.

Now years later, I realize the words and music were all manufactured and manipulated and packaged for young minds made of putty and clay. They were singing the songs but few had actually lived the story. Yes, there were cars but they were rentals. They had the chicks but that never lasted very long. They themselves were more often than not fragile, broken and dysfunctional just like me. They brought forth their message but (figuratively speaking) died in the process. Welcome to the real world of rock and roll and music from our youth.

Literally and figurative, they are all gone now. They’re either dead, disappeared or sadly still trying to cling to some semblance of what they once were. What does remain is a body of work that still resonates within my soul. Even after knowing the reality behind the music’s creation, it still speaks to me. It still draws picture-stories in my mind. It still stimulates my imagination in ways that no other medium can. The torch-bearers are gone but their message remains.

Photo courtesy of Jerry Hoffman

There were a number of other events in my younger years that propelled me into what and where I am today. Those were life-altering events such as being accepted into Cretin High School, returning to the College of Saint Thomas, living abroad, getting married, starting my own business, and finally decided that in lieu of retirement I’d give writing a chance.

Perhaps it was Tinkerbell who stole that moniker from me not that long ago. Reminiscing on 80 years stumbling around this great planet of ours, I’ve come to the conclusion that there were a lot of things I never accomplished in my youth and growing up was one of them. Finding a stable home life like that of ‘Ozzie and Harriett’ or ‘Leave it to Beaver’ gave me a false impression of what ‘real home life’ was supposed to be like back then. It wasn’t to be part of my backstory.

Most of my youthful aspirations were never meet. I never traveled around the world on a tramp steamer or shipped out of New Orleans to cruise the Southern Hemisphere as a rambling vagabond.

My rambling around the countryside like Woody Guthrie was provided by Uncle Sam who limited my ventures to California, Louisiana and Virginia.

I never did the ex-pat thing very well. The first time around in Europe, my job in a Danish laundry didn’t leave a lot of time for exploring the countryside or other countries.  On my second venture East, I applied for work at the BBC but a Yank in London had a real uphill climb to be accepted there.

Mix an ISTJ (off the charts) with an ENFJ (Sharon is too) and what you get is an affirmation that opposites attract. Domestic life ensued and fifty-one years later I’m retired and busy with other things.

My youthful naïve dream of becoming a writer started in the early 70s with two typed up westerns which then took a hiatus for another fifty years until it finally became a real and new vocation and career for me starting at around age 65.

Now I write full-time, drawing on my imagination and anywhere else I can steal an idea. Perhaps it started with those transistor radio voices or cooking up poems in the rundown palace I first lived in independently. I guess it doesn’t hurt to still have a little youthful exuberance attached to the task of churning out storylines for my blogs, plays, novels, etc. Looking in my rearview mirror isn’t a bad way to see the road ahead.

Standing Outside of Myself

The cliché wrapped up as a question goes something like this:

How do you see yourself?

How do others see you?

How are you in reality?

Often times our version of reality doesn’t compute with other people’s reality about us. So goes the game of life. I thought I knew but they knew better. Or so they thought. Self-reflection isn’t a bad thing if it can be done with a solid grasp of past failures and accomplishments. Satisfaction with ‘today’ can open up the world of ‘before’ with all of its nooks and cranny’s and past stumbles revealed.

Along with being born Catholic comes a certain amount of Catholic guilt and fear of the sin of pride. My classmates and I were taught early on that feeling good about one self, if not a mortal sin, was certainly venal in nature. The idea was to think only of others, to the detriment of ourselves. ‘Sacrifice now’ we were told so we could reap our benefits in heaven. It was an ancient line handed down from the priests, nuns, teachers, parents and other figures of authority. Being German Catholic with rural ancestry certainly didn’t diminish but only enhanced that message to us young-ins.

Being raised in a single parent household, ours was not your typical home environment when the norm usually centered on the classic nuclear family. As a Catholic youngster the standard path to eternal life for me was being an altar boy in grade school, 12 years of Catholic education, Sunday services every Sunday and unquestioning allegiance to the Bishop and Rome.

Self-reflection was usually considered a bad thing. A kind of masturbation of the mind. Feeling good about oneself was the worst kind of sin, that of pride.

So when I began blogging several years ago I found myself reflecting back on my life as it stacked up to that point. Without the encroaching cloak of adult authority leaning over my shoulder I was able to look back, not in anger, but with curiosity at a life well lived thus far.

It was only recently that I realized there were two curriculum tracks at Cretin High School. Seriously, I was that clueless! There was the college bound track with its challenging academic courses and then the other track for those less inclined or qualified. Somehow, I was able to muddle through high school without guidance or help from anyone.

Getting into St. Thomas College proved I could succeed academically despite my grades in high school. A brief stint at the University of Minnesota proved I couldn’t succeed in that large factory of learning.

So now at 75 with many miles traveled and some accomplishments under my belt, I can step outside of myself and look back at my life… and not feel guilty in the process. My academic career was less than Steller but it worked for me. It gave me the insight and passion to believe that it was paramount that my kids and grandkids steel themselves with a solid educational background in order to succeed in this new ever-changing world.

They say maturity is wasted on youth. That’s probably true but I won’t apologize for my sometimes foolish, boorish, immature behavior growing up. I was young and stupid and yet somehow survived those lean, mean, not so innocent years without hurting anyone in the process.

A part of me wants to apologize to past girlfriends for any awkward situations I created between us. I realize now how very immature I was at the time. The intent was there. The manner taken could have been better. I guess I was searching. I’m not sure for what.

It’s a shame I’ve lost touch with so many old friends. Back then it was just the passage of time and other interests that drew us apart. Life moved on but I lost something very precious without even knowing it at the time. Luckily, some of them are still around if only by e-mail or the occasional coffee chat.

On another level, I’m grateful for the casual acquaintances with whom I’ve only spent slivers of time over time. Circumstances brought us together for a while and then pulled us apart as our lives moved on in different directions. But the moments and memories are still there etched in my brain.

Many curtains have opened for me at this later stage in my life. And before (sorry for the pun) my final curtain call, I want to look back once again on a life well lived with all of its hits and misses and reflect with a smile on how lucky I have been.