Dad And The Nature of Art

Dad

My father is an exceptional man. I’ve never known anyone as patient, caring or responsible. He never talks about love, that language is unavailable to him, but he "lives" love with absolute fidelity, and that thought brings me to a discussion of art.

I've been told that art is entirely a collaborative process. It includes what the artist intended as he created the work of art, then what the work of art actually communicates apart from the artist's intentions, and finally art becomes what is interpreted through the lens of the observer's experience and personality.

However, we seldom look at art that way. Almost universally we give pride of place to the artist as the genius who transcends the experience of art. Somehow we fail to realize that "War and Peace" is not the same book for any two different readers, and it's possible that "War and Peace" conjures truths for a gifted reader that Tolstoy himself never fully appreciated. That prejudice in favor of the artist turns the work of art, no matter how exquisite, into simply a medium, while it makes the observer of art derivative – someone whose capacity for art is judged solely by how well he appreciates the original intention of the artist.

I remember taking a class in art history years ago. The students sat in darkness while our instructor clicked away with a device that controlled a slide projector. There would be a short mechanical sound followed by an image projected on a screen. Early in the semester we viewed slides of Egyptian jewelery, Greek statues and Renaissance paintings which combined art with obvious craftsmanship.

It was easy to see the craft, even if the more subtle reality of art went completely undetected. After all, we were beginning students, and craft was much easier to appreciate than the more subtle characteristics of "art." It was only with time that we began to realize that craft was simply a sort of expertise - a manual aesthetic competence. Genuine art, on the other hand, was a spiritual vocabulary that expressed something true and original about being human.

Late in the semester, when we got to the modern period, the images became ever more abstract. These modern works had everything to do with art, and very little to do with craft. Beyond the ability to pair a name with a particular work of art, it was this sensibility that our instructor was hoping to inform. And so, for our final examination, we were shown a series of slides; some were of well crafted objects, and some were of objects that were haphazardly abstract. The question we were expected to answer was, “Which of these objects are art, which are not, and why?”

For me it was a revelation that in most instances I could see the difference. I understood that while craft and art often went hand in hand, on many occasions they did not. Some objects might be well crafted, but have absolutely nothing important to say. They could be a fine representation, well sculpted or well painted, but they certainly were not art.

Then there might be a painting by Miro or Pollock, something that didn't require very much technical skill, but these works had something astounding to say. They communicated a profound truth that was beyond my ablility to fully understand. Yet while their art was immune to easy explanation, it could be put on a wall and I would never tire of looking at it. What they did was art.

Eventually I asked myself, “How is art defined? What are the rules that allow you to point to one thing and say this is not art, and point at something else and say this is art?”

It didn't take long for me to give up on that quest. If there is such a set of rules, I have no idea what it might be. Maybe the only real answer is that “Art is whatever an artist does.”

This might sound silly and almost tautalogical. However there is a kind of truth in that statement that has become ever more real and obvious to me with time.

Yet, there is one other thing I 've leared about art that isn't quite so oblique. That truth is that there is a huge difference between creating art, appreciating art, and living art.

A person like Picasso could create art, but he couldn't live it. Great artists always have a sure grasp of what is true and human, but they often live lives of narcissism and self involvement. Picasso could paint a woman using techniques that were elementary, but what he rendered was the portrait of something wonderfully intangible. He found a way to desribe someone's soul. Still, even with all that artistic grace and astounding insight he treated the women in his life with unthinking cruelty.

Ultimately his life became a sad contradiction to his art.

By way of a long metaphor, this brings me back to dad. Perhaps living a good life - a life that is characterized by love - is very much like what art seeks to emulate. There are those who can exquisitely describe what love means with well chosen words, a musical instument, or a brush and a palate of paint. And then there are those who can appreciate and understand love, even if they can't describe what it is that they see. These are the fortunate legions who are affirmed and redeemed by love.

And finally there are those who actually are the music. These are the people whose lives are a pure expression of love in all its routine majesty.

Yet it is a sad fact that all these qualities are seldom packaged in the same person. An artist with a palate of colors is seldom an artist with life.

So ultimately this is the question, "Is the most important actor in the experience of art the artist himself?"

I don't think so. At the end of the day, the world might be a less rich and interesting place without poets, but the world could do just fine without them. However, it would less easily survive without those whose hearts can be moved by what poetry has to say, and it would be lost forever without those people whose exquisite lives are the very reason that poetry exists.

Bishop John England 

Seperation of Church and State

Today I was perusing the The Library of Congress website. If you haven't been there yet I recommend it. It is rich, extensive and endlessly facinating. Currently they have a special web exhibit entitled "Religion and The Founding of The American Republic."

There was much to learn there that I didn't know. For instance, church services were held in both the House of Representatives and in the Old Supreme Court Chamber from the time of the Capitol's construction until well after the Civil War. Among the Presidents who regularly attended those services were Thomas Jefferson, James Madison and John Adams.

Perhaps the library staff is sensitive to the religious opinions of the current adminstration, and that accounts for the presence of this particular exhibit. Still, it seems obvious that the constitutional seperation between church and state was less rigorously understood back then. Can you imagine church services being held in government buildings today? Even the most conservative among us might find that practice problematical.

However, those arguing for airtight seperation between church and state won't find much support in the practices of the people who founded our republican government.

Also of interest was mention of the very first Catholic clergyman to preach at these services on capitol hill. That clergyman's name was Bishop John England and his sermon was delivered on January 8, 1826. In part his remarks were a rebuttal of one passage in John Quincy Adams' oft quoted speech of July 4, 1821 that called the bonds between American government and Christianity "indisoluable." Those words would warm the heart of most Christian clerics, however, the section that caused Bishop England's distress was Adams' claim that the Roman Church's intollerance made it incompatable with republican government. As it happend Adams was in attendance that day to hear Bishop England say...

"we do not believe that God gave to the church any power to interfere with our civil rights, or our civil concerns. I would not allow to the Pope, or to any bishop of our church, the smallest interference with the humblest vote at our most insignificant balloting box."

Those are very republican sentiments indeed, yet in light of the role that many Catholic Bishops played in opposing the candidacy of John Kerry, I wonder if Bishop England spoke in error and Adams was right all along?

Mr. Reynold's New Position

Recently President Bush appointed Gerald A. Reynolds, a black Republican, to become the new chair of the U.S. Civil Rights Commission. Formerly Mr. Reynolds served in the Education Department under Bush, and he is taking over from Mary Francis Berry who is also black, quite liberal, and famously outspoken.

Ms. Berry is no president’s idea of a team player, but given her position that wasn’t such a bad thing. The U.S. Civil Rights Commission has little real authority and it derives most of its importance from being the government’s official conscience in matters of race. The commission's main role is to make those in power believe that someone on the inside is watching. After the 2000 election in Florida, when there were widespread accusations that blacks had been excluded from the polls, the U.S. Civil Rights Commission launched an investigation.

However, in Washington they play hardball and in these times loyalty is highly prized. The Washington Post reported that upon assuming his new role Reynolds said that “…the first order of business at the commission will be fiscal: ‘One of the first things we're going to do is have an audit,’”

In other words, Ms. Berry best be looking for a good lawyer.

All that political blood sport aside; Mr. Reynolds’ resume is an impressive qualification for his new office. Prior to his stint at the Department of Education he was Senior Regulatory Counsel for Kansas City Power & Light Company, and before that he practiced law with Schatz & Schatz, Ribicoff & Kotkin, a Connecticut-based law firm.

However, even as he was joining the Civil Rights Commission Mr. Reynolds made a statement that attracted controversy. He suggested to a New York Times reporter that he himself had never experienced racial prejudice. When pressed on the issue he back peddled a little and then explained, “I just assume somewhere in my life some knucklehead has looked at me and my brown self and (then) given me less or denied me an opportunity. But the bottom line is, and my wife will attest to this, I am so insensitive that I probably didn't notice.”

Two questions occur to me - the first is, how important is sensitivity in the person who serves as the government's conscience in matters of race?

The second question - are he and my friend "Daniel" living in the same world?

Different Worlds

My friend Daniel (not his real name) was driving in from out of town and we had arranged to meet each other at a local pub. I entered the restaurant a few moments before he did, and as soon as he arrived he scurried to the men’s restroom at the end of a narrow hallway. Just as he reached for the door handle a man bolted out of the restroom and the edge of the door intersected with Daniel’s forehead. You could hear the crack from fifty feet away.

The man was apologetic, but short of driving Daniel to the emergency room there wasn’t much that he could do. Daniel suggested that he was alright and the man repeated his apology before walking out to the parking lot. Daniel took the few short steps to our table and sat down in the midst of a vacant bar. It was about 4:00 in the afternoon - a slow time for restaurants catering to a lunch and dinner crowd. The place was hollow.

The knot on Daniel’s forehead grew instantly larger and a cut that divided his eyebrow began to bleed. He was woozy and disoriented. We needed a towel and some ice, but there was no help available. I told him that I’d look for a waiter or a bartender, but after searching the place I didn’t find a soul… no one.

Taking the initiative I went behind the bar, found a white cotton towel, and I loaded it with ice. Returning to the table I handed Daniel the cold lump of terrycloth and he applied it to his face. As relief took effect he glanced up at me with his one un-swollen eye. In a cheerless voice he admitted that I had done something that he could never do... which was slip behind a counter without permission.

“No matter the circumstance,” he said, “that would be reckless… at least for someone like me.”

That comment didn’t really fit Daniel. He’s a former councilman of a sizeable city, and he’s the newly elected chair of a statewide political caucus. He’s an operator, plugged in politically, and the governor takes his calls.

Daniel didn’t make his point to say that I have chutzpah, or admit that he doesn’t. And he wasn’t saying that what I did was wrong or presumptuous. Daniel's point was a simple admission that the two of us live in different worlds, and the rules for each of us are not the same.

Did I tell you that my friend is black?

Moss On a Post

Too Soon For Christmas

Years ago there was a house that I passed nearly every day. It was an impressive Georgian two-story, but at Christmas time it became more impressive still. The owner had an enthusiasm for holiday lighting and like clockwork, the day after Thanksgiving, his home became a castle of flashing light. It was the sort of fabulous display that people would drive out of their way to see.

One year, on the evening after Halloween, I made my turn at his corner and all the lights and decorations were up… and three weeks earlier than usual. Instead of being grateful I was disappointed. It seemed that he was surrendering to all the gross commercialism that forces the holiday into premature birth.

I soon learned that the early appearance of those lights had a quite different motive. The man who lived there had received the unhappy news that he had cancer, his condition was terminal, and survival to the end of the year was unlikely. With the help of his family he had determined to put up his decorations early. For this one season his home glowed with hope for one more Christmas, and as a profound argument against the night.

Gratitude for Crazy Women

On Monday my mother went to the beauty shop to get her holiday “do.” The shop is operated by Darla, a nice looking woman in her early thirties. Like many beauticians, Darla makes something of a fetish of her appearance, but she does it to reasonably good effect. Her makeup is slightly more than subtle, and her short blond hair is spiked. She is the daughter of a flamboyant local preacher and inherited religious fervor plays an important role in the daily life of her shop.

As Darla flips and clips she talks incessantly about her close relationship with Jesus. It seems that no aspect of her life is too small not to be the subject of the Lord’s careful consideration. She speaks as if her will is entirely surrendered to Jesus, and her daily life requires nothing more than complete and uncritical agreement.

She has a serviceable voice and when the spirit moves her - and the spirit moves her often - she breaks into a full throated rendition of an old time gospel hymn. Occasionally, as she gathers speed in the direction of the second verse, she’ll stop, take an unexpected turn and say, “Did I tell you that I was talking to the Lord last night…?”

Mom listens for the singing to stop, because there’s no telling what might come after that question. Mom will drop the Reader’s Digest into her lap and begin paying careful attention. Darla’s conversations with the Divine are offered in the form of dialogue. First Jesus will say this, and then Darla will say that, suggestions will be offered and decisions made... all in the space of a few moment’s conversation with her Lord and Savior.

A few months back Darla paused in the middle of “A Closer Walk With Thee,” circled a blue roller with someone’s brown hair and then turned to the women sitting along the wall.

“I was talking to the Lord last night and you won’t believe what he said to me.”

The woman whose hair was being curled rose to the occasion, “Really? What did he say?”

The beautician waggled her scissors at the women seated in a row of black Naugahide chairs, “He said, ‘Darla I’m tellin’ you to go off the pill, and right now.’”

One of those women seemed slightly scandalized that Jesus would delve into affairs so private. “Why no!” she said, “Jesus told you that?”

“As I live and breathe he did. And you know what else he told me? He said that I was goin’ to have a baby boy.”

The woman surprised at the Lord’s impropriety needed to know more, “A boy, Darla? He told you you were havin’ a boy? And what did you say?”

“Believe me, you sound like you're surprised, but I can tell you that I was totally shocked. I stood there all agape, looked at Jesus and said… ‘are you sure?’”

Those are probably not the words that Moses would have used as he knelt before an awesome God, but at the time Darla thought it was a pretty good question. She was probably right, and Darla’s reaction set to one side, I wonder at her husband’s response to this momentous revelation. For the sake of mom’s beautician I hope that he is also a very strong believer.

Our family has had a few good laughs at Darla’s expense. For the last few years the quirks of this crazy woman, and her strange collection of customers, have been comedy offered up on the installment plan.

Frankly, I think she probably is a certifiable nut. Yet today I find myself thinking about another woman who had to deal with a similar impertinent request. Maybe she looked up at the angel Gabriel and said, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.”

Maybe… and all apologies to Luke, but I think “Are you sure?” sounds a lot more credible.

Whichever response was closer to the truth, at least for the rest of this week I’m inclined to be grateful for crazy women, and particularly grateful for crazy women of astounding faith.

One Terrific Shortstop

I’m a headhunter, or if you choose a more graceful description of what I do, I’m an executive recruiter. I speak to a large number of people everyday who are perfect strangers. One of the odd ironies of my occupation is that I commonly speak to people with whom I have no relationship at all, and then I ask them excruciatingly personal questions.

“When did you graduate from college?”

“Are you happy in your current employment?”

“What’s your salary?”

This week my research yielded a roster of employees for a company in Arizona. I had no idea if anyone on that list might be appropriate for the position I was trying to fill. It was simply a list of names, and I meant to call each one hoping to find the perfect candidate.

The second entry in alphabetical order was “Lou Boudreau.” That is not a common name, but to even the casual fan of baseball it will instantly recall one of the best shortstops in the history of the game. Lou Boudreau played for the Cleveland Indians and the Boston Red Sox between 1938 and 1952. At the very early age of 24 he was named as both player and manager for Cleveland and two years later he won the American League batting title. In 1948 he batted .355, was selected as the MVP in the American League and he did all of this while managing the Indians to a World Series victory. In 1970 he was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

After a few moments spent interviewing the Lou Boudreau whose name appeared on my list I realized that his career had taken him well beyond the position that I had to offer. Once our conversation lost its professional purpose I asked the obvious question, “I’m assuming it’s no accident that your name is Lou Boudreau.”

“You’re right,” he replied, “my father was the shortstop who made the name famous.”

“Terrific player,” I said, reminding him of a fact that didn’t require any reminder, “when I was living in Chicago he was ending his career as a sportscaster for the Cubs. They really loved him there.”

“I grew up while dad was announcing for the Cub’s. In fact, dad was still living close to Chicago when he passed away.”

“Wasn’t that just two or three years ago? I remember the entire city turning out for the funeral.”

“The city was good to dad,” he replied without much emphasis.

Sounding like a pathetically eager fan I asked, “Did you ever play baseball yourself?”

“Yes, I was only a fair player, good enough for minor league ball. My brother had more talent than I did. He pitched for a while in triple “A,” but never made it to the show.”

When he mentioned his brother’s turn at pitching I recalled a managerial feat credited to his father. “Wasn’t your dad the guy who converted Bob Lemmon from a so-so infielder to a star pitcher?”

“Yep, he had a special insight for things like that. He helped Bob Lemmon, and he also turned two sons with average talent into professional ballplayers… even if for only a short while. Dad could see strengths in people that people often couldn’t see in themselves. It was amazing how he could do that… how he could make people believe in the good part of themselves… the part that sometimes only dad could see.”

I paused at this description of an extraordinary gift. Of all the complements I had ever heard, this might supercede them all; the remarkable power to see what was best in someone – then to hold up a mirror so they could see exactly what you were seeing, and then make them believe.

I didn’t have an adequate response to an observation that sublime so I made a weak segue back to baseball. “Well anyway, he was one terrific shortstop.”

Lou the younger paused for a moment before revealing that he had one better complement to offer, “Yes you’re right,” he said, “dad was a good shortstop, but an even better father.”

Precisely

Recently I spoke with my friend Tom whose wife is recovering from a critical illness. He is self-employed and able to ply his trade from home while attending to Karen - helping her in every possible way. He said he is now playing a much more significant role in his wife’s daily needs than he ever imagined a husband might play. Yet he is surprised how both of them have adjusted to their new situation. He said that, “Surprisingly we have become much closer… both practically and emotionally.”

I told Tom that I understood perfectly. Some years ago I had a friend who suffered with terminal cancer. At his request I would visit him each day with communion, but I wondered if the major reason he looked forward to my arrival was so that I could accommodate his trip to the toilet. I assumed that he might be trying to spare his wife the additional burden of that particular indignity.

"Tom," I said, “there's nothing like bending over a toilet and putting your arms around someone who needs your strength to stand. That is a moment of total vulnerability for the both of you. The person you are helping gives over their dignity without the advantage of any choice in the matter, and you, by serving in such an intimate way, become humbled just as much as the person you serve. It strips away every facade and puts the two of you on the very same level. There is something almost righteous about it.”

"Precisely," was his reply.

The Ghost of Christmas Future

Two homes sit side by side on Lakewood Drive that have recently endured a great loss. In one of these homes lives Lynita whose husband, my Uncle Fred, passed away last September. Next to Lynita lives Dorothy, and her husband Jim died only a few months before Fred. These two men were an odd duet that gave the neighborhood character, and their passing left a void of personality that remains unfilled. What was once a neighborhood centered on the adventures of two eccentrics, has now become deeply conscious of two women who are suddenly widows.

Of course my father also mourns. He and his brother had quirks that were not interchangeable, but their values and attitudes were mostly parallel. Those similarities included a striking physical resemblance. Pictures from years before show men very individual in appearance. Yet, as they got older those peculiarities lost their contrast. The wear and graying of age made individual features transparent, and they gradually blended into a common type.

My father is concerned for both these women. Yet for Dorothy that concern is particularly marked because her heart is weak, and her health teeters on the edge of crisis. Within a week of Jim’s funeral Dad spread out on her kitchen table a brochure advertising a small electronic device to be worn like a necklace. This tiny electronic transmitter is activated by the press of a button and it instantly contacts a designated person living nearby.

Dad volunteered to be that designated person.

That was months ago. Until this past week that device was never put to the test. Then on Thursday evening at ten o’clock it was activated and when dad telephoned Dorothy didn’t answer. Dad quickly resolved to drive over to Dorothy’s and mom insisted on coming along. They fumbled for car keys, quickly put on their robes and within a few moments they were at the front door of Dorothy’s darkened home. They knocked, but no one answered.

What they did not know was that Dorothy had been invited to a Christmas party, and some accidental contact had pushed the button that brought them to her porch. With no one responding, mom asked the obvious question, “Do you have Dorothy’s house keys?”

“No… I don’t.”

Mom separately annunciated each of the following words, “Did she give you a set of keys?”

“Yes, she did.”

“And where are they?”

“I’m not sure.”

Within seconds Dad was indicted, tried and found guilty. Sentencing was soon to follow.

At that moment Dad spied the bright possibility of a quick reprieve. Next door the Goolahan’s home was a thicket of blue Christmas lights, and their living room glowed with evidence that they were still awake. In his desperation dad rightly assumed that they must also have a set of Dorothy’s keys.

Unfortunately, regarding the Goolahan's, there was also much that dad could not have assumed.

That night, with her husband was out of town, Laura Goolahan had decided to read aloud “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens. Over the progress of that evening she wove through the famous mishaps of Scrooge. Her young children were introduced to the decaying remnant of old Marley, the perverse image of an elderly child cast as the ghost of Christmas past, and the specter of an emaciated frozen ghost in the person of Christmas present.

There was a brief recess while the popcorn bowl was refilled and then Laura began to describe the most frightening apparition of all, the ghost of Christmas Future. She opened the book and began to read…

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand…

At that very moment there was a loud knock on their elaborately windowed front door. As mother and child looked up, in a glow of blue light, wearing a dark robe with arm outstretched was the very image of Fred. The scream that followed belonged in the pit of Dante's Inferno. Jumping up the Goolahan’s collided with one another in a desperate attempt to find safe exit. So convincing was the panic that dad turned around and made a confused dash for the car.

Sitting next to him in the darkness of this calamity was my mother. “Do you have Dorothy’s keys?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, what on earth happened?”

He turned to look at her and said, “I’m not really sure.”

In a tone of labored patience she asked, “Wouldn't it be wise to go back and ask for those keys?”

Dad thought for a moment, “Doris, you’re right, but something’s terribly wrong and I probably have something to do with it.”

Dad was a picture of mystified culpability. Finally mom opened her mouth as if to offer an argument, but then thought better of it. A second or two passed before she reached for the door handle, “Let me ask poor Laura what you’ve done.”

In due course mom brought order to mayhem. She alleviated panic, restored calm and quickly confirmed that Dorothy was safe and happy. As for dad, he’s resolved to end his brief and convincing career as the ghost of Christmas future.

What Is The Problem?

My friend is a liberal Protestant, and I am a liberal Catholic. He has spent much of his adult life in central America and he despairs at the rapid increase of population that he believes is an important barrier to human development. He reasons that since the Catholic Church takes a strong stand against birth control it is largely responsible for exacerbating the problem of world hunger.

I follow his logic, and on a certain obvious level it makes perfect sense. However, that argument would be much more compelling if back long ago when the world’s population was far smaller everyone had lived in the lap of plenty. Yet go back as far as you like and there have always been the poor, and they have persistently lived with injustice and hunger.

I’m not smart enough to know the consequences for humanity if sex is substantially divorced from the creation of life. However, I do believe that the main cause of poverty is not an over abundance of people, but the painful absence of love.

Graduation Night - 1968

Life at my high school was like living out a casting call for safe family entertainment. It was 1968 and my graduating class followed a script that had little to do with the world around us. High school was intended to be a social preserve guarding against the new and the uncomfortable. We were supposed to accept the archaic as if it were still alive and credible, adopt assumptions that no longer had a brainwave, and affirm values that were without a pulse.

The world outside was resolutely ignored, regardless of whether its challenges were good or bad. “The Feminine Mystique” had been published five years earlier, but Betty Freidan and the women’s movement were not happening at our school. When a student became pregnant she disappeared, gone without comment, her enrollment terminated, shamed forever.

It was a year of race riots. Newark, Chicago and Detroit were “a flambé” on the nightly news. In early April Martin Luther King was assassinated and the day his casket was carried to its grave classes were held without remark or interruption.

Nearly 500,000 troops were in Vietnam, and before 1968 was over another 14,000 American boys would be dead. That winter our debate team argued about compulsory labor arbitration, and the school newspaper was not allowed to mention the war.

It was easy to feel alienated in the high schools of that time, and I was not alone in wondering at the relevancy of it all. Most of that senior year is lost to me now. I have no memory if the football team had a winning season, what classes I took, or what grades I received. What I do remember is the night I graduated.

With a few friends I was off to the school sponsored graduation party. We arrived feeling nothing quite so much as skeptical, and yet hoping for something that might give this moment meaning. Few of the people we were close to came to that party. Of those who were there, the girls were determined to cry flamboyantly, while the boys self-consciously reveled in a grandiose moment. They were nothing like us. It was like watching home movies of a past that no longer mattered.

We were all expecting to attend the University of Utah that fall, and the campus of that school was only a few miles away. Someone suggested that we should see if something wasn’t happening there, “up at the student union.” Given our state of disaffection we wondered if the “U” wasn’t already the place where we truly belonged. With little discussion we walked out of our graduation party, and that was the last moment any of us spent at Skyline High School.

When we arrived at the “U” classes had already been dismissed for the summer and the union was practically deserted. We walked into the bowling ally and threw a few desultory lines, but bowling in a large and vacant facility wasn’t any fun. There was nothing for us here, and there was certainly nothing for us back at the party we had just left. Resigned to our situation we headed for home at the pathetically early hour of midnight.

I crawled into bed disappointed by my utter lack of nostalgia. I wondered, “Why hadn’t I been able to make a connection that really mattered? Had my time in high school been so poorly spent that now I had nothing to miss?”

For me the night seemed hopelessly insignificant, no different than a thousand other nights just like it. I despised the fact that I couldn’t feel a thing, and with sleep still a ways off I reached up to my headboard and turned on the radio. That was the night of June 4th and there had been a presidential primary in California. Bobby Kennedy was giving a victory speech at the Ambassador Hotel and he finished with the words, “On to Chicago!”

A few moments later shots rang out. In the most unfortunate way, a Palestinian busboy had just succeeded in making that night unforgettable in a way that would remain forever painful.

Drivers Ed

I've never taken well to the operation of an automobile. When I took a class in driver's ed at my high school in Salt Lake City my instruction was supervised by a failed basketball coach. One of my early attempts behind the wheel placed me, that coach, and a car full of students on a monument dedicated to the Mormon pioneers.

That mishap was hard to live down, and I would gladly have conducted the rest of my life in way that never reminded anyone of that event. However, I needed a signed note of "driving competence" if I were to receive my license without a six month delay. When I showed the chutzpa to ask for that note the coach reminded me of how thoroughly I had humiliated him, my fellow students, and most of all those, “Poor Mormon pioneers.”

I apologized for my affront to everyone, including the Mormon pioneers, and offered in my defense a perfect score on every written test. He looked at me and then offered this deathless advice, “Son, it’s time you realized that driver's ed isn’t entirely an intellectual exercise.”

The Cure

Recently I wrote an essay about a couple who had endured the hurt that comes from death and suicide. One friend whose mother died by her own hand, back when my friend was still quite young, wrote to tell me that she hadn't kept a single picture of herself from childhood, "life in my family wasn't very joyful then."

Another friend whose wife had perished in the very same way wrote to say that the one grace from that period was that, "so many people dared to say something to me, even though they didn't know what to say."

I've been thinking about my friend, and those who dared to say something. It seems to me that ultimately everything we do is an attempt to win the love of others and believe that our life has significance. Occasionally a terrible thing happens that makes our life seem like an argument against everything we hold dear... and we despair. The people around us often assume that the only way they can alleviate our suffering is by finding a fix for the situation that devastates us. When that situation is not "fixable" many of those good people feel impotent. Occasionally they back away, or pretend that everything is normal and that we're not hurting.

What those people do not know is that our real hope has never been a miracle or a fix. We don't hope for the dead to come back to life, or for the unfixable to be fixed. Our goal is simply to believe in love again, and to believe that we are worthy of love. Everything else we hope for is a means to that exquisite end.

So the good news is that there is no such thing as an unfixable hurt. We all carry the cure for everyone who suffers. Each of us can live a life that says, "I love you."

Stringing Christmas Lights

Today my father and I strung Christmas lights from the eaves. Like most household projects it was supposed to take an hour's time, but it lasted for most of the afternoon. By the time we were done my hand was badly scratched, and a dozen bulbs were broken and replaced. At last the lights were up. Mother came outside to witness while Dad did the honors. Two plugs were brought together and most of the lights came instantly aglow... but not all of them. There were two significant stretches where not a single light was lit.

After a pause my mother asked, "Well, what should we do?"

"I don't know," dad replied, "but the only time anyone would ever notice is at night."