Well it's All right - 5th Annivesary Second Chance Dance !

WARNING : FOR MATURE READERS ONLY!   ALSO...MUSIC VIDEOS MAY NOT PLAY ON ALL "SMART " PHONES!

“ Well it’s all right , even if your old an gray

Well  its’ all right , you still got something to say…

Well  it’s all right , even if the sun don’t shine

Well  it’s all right , we’re goin’ to the end of the line!”

So as the summer slowly began to slip away he sat again like most mornings in meditative musing. Those mystical constellations that told stories and guided his vessel in the heavens slowly faded as the sun of the new day burned away the mist that had hung like a worn halo above the tree line. He sat, stared silently and wondered. That cool ocean breeze, the voice of the new season waiting just around the corner whispered .

“Another anniversary at hand…Five years”

The day memorializing Ignatius and his exercises was five years since the pilgrim receiving the great sacrament of healing by one of the companions on the eve of the great repairing of his heart. That moment, that day was remembered as the commencement of the odyssey of the second chance, the new chapter…setting of the new course.

The mystical voice continued

“What is the purpose of remembering?” Why celebrate anniversaries ? Is it all about recollection or recapturing that semi-historic moment or is it refueling, a re commitment? Is it all of the above? Celebrations, solemn remembrances of holy events, victories, losses , births , weddings and graduations…what does it all mean? When the anniversary commemoration is finished …then what?”

The pilgrim remembered how he had gotten diverted on occasion over the years . If he were a golfer one would say that he had lost his swing. If he was a singer or writer another might suggest that every once in a while he had lost his voice.  Just about 43,000 hours ago, give or take a few minutes, he believed that he was given a great gift transforming into a metanoia that rekindled his true spirit . So on this memorial day his  grateful requital would be to show his indebtedness by allowing his authentic voice to raise up.

                                       

Sky cleared up, day turned to bright

Closing both eyes now the head filled with light

Hard to remember what a state I was in

Instant amnesia

Yang to the Yin.

All I got to do is to love you

All I got to be is, be happy

All it's got to take is some warmth to make it

Blow Away, Blow Away, Blow Away.

Wind blew in, cloud was dispersed

Rainbows appearing, the pressures were burst

Breezes a-singing, now feeling good

The moment had passed

                                        Like I knew that it should.

“Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty,
my memory, my understanding,
and my entire will,
 All I have and call my own.

You have given all to me.
 To you, Lord, I return it.

Everything is yours; do with it what you will.
 Give me only your love and your grace,
 that is enough for me.”

-       Ignatius Loyola

amdg

The Hungry Heart’s Game Changer

The prodigal pilgrim sailor packs away the scrolled maps he bought long ago that promised a course to a supposed hidden treasure somewhere on some uncharted island .He blows the dust from his passage trusted weathered weary compass securing her in a box for storage wondering if the stars lied. Forty-eight months have passed at sea since his vessel about to be lost unrecorded wreckage was graced with another chance by great-unseen hand.

What seems to be an obscure lost dream in the blink of an eye the cracking open of his chest as if he were some about to be consumed lobster was what a member of the band would label a “game changer.”  The light at the end of the tunnel continues to slowly increase in size as his vessel proceeds in becalmed and stormy seas alike. The passage continues as he grows in acceptance of the impermanence.

The priests say it is their prayers and his attempt at faith that healed and saved him. The sisters of the Holy Trinity believe it was their love that kept him on course. The member of the band protests the proposition of any role in feeding the pilgrim’s fire.

The pilgrim sailor’s journal scribblings attempt to articulate the confusion of new labyrinth meanderings and concern about the possible lack of progress. Recent readings provide some elucidation while meditating at dawn the comings and goings and songs of the birds of the first light and how the great mother sun gradually illuminates everything without judgment. He does not command - his heart to beat, his blood to flow, and his lungs to breathe. Somehow they know their purpose. 

“Something bigger than everything is at work here.”

It is the wonder-filling peace and mustard seed rooted gratitude that begin to flourish around, within and through him as he tries just to be. The fog that encompassed the affirmation that he was not here for himself was burning away.

[On July 31, 2008 the family enjoyed an evening of celebration of hope in the “land of giants” by the Boss. The program’s tee shirt with the three swords and a heart was an appropriate garb, as the father would have a CABG (coronary artery bypass surgery) at dawn on August 4, 2008. That celebration was part of what promoters called “Magic Tour”…. and he believed.]

         








                        Epitaph on the gravestone of St. Ignatius of Loyola


     “Non coerceri a maximo, contineri tamen a minimo, divinum est.”

(Loose translation…. Not to be daunted or held back by the greatest challenge and yet to      be concerned with the nitty-gritty, that is the path to holiness.)

********************************* 

Autumn Poem

In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings

flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —

it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges.
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,

its ticks and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life

to come through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward

to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,

and he begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,

from so many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.

Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying

to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.

                  -  Mary Oliver

*******************************************

Philip Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.

Hugh Fennyman: So what do we do?

Philip Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.

Hugh Fennyman: How?

Philip Henslowe: I don't know. It's a mystery.

  - Shakespeare in Love

                                           http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCVJny3Va4I

                                         http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0W7_XgXfH38

amdg

On the Road Again: Turn!Turn!Turn!

“…Use my body like a car,
Taking me both near and far
Met my friends all in the material world…”

-       Living in The material World, George Harrison

 “To everything there is a season, and
a time to every purpose under heaven…”

                       - Ecclesiastes, 3: 1-2

Sometimes the world changes in the blink of an eye, the taking of a breath or the beat of a heart. Before one has a chance to have another thought everything that was has been transformed. It is almost as if that everything that was is now a memory and that which is to come is a new challenge and experience ineffable until it too has been experienced and then is past. Suddenly that source of comfort, security and familiarity is swept away. That long winding road ahead takes a sudden turn and everything is new again.

It is guaranteed that if you were to suggest to Hawk Hill Girl number 2 that her eyes welled up with tears as she said a final farewell to her faithful friend she would deny it, once, twice and even a third time. Her companion and protector for the past few years would no longer be a part of her. Digital representations online and in photographic journals would become the prompts to conjure the memories of journeys taken together and how they survived unforecasted storms. One day they were cruising along together on the roads of life to work, to school and to play with blasting beats and harmonies when suddenly without warning the companion stopped as if to say “Please, no more.”

The grateful eulogy about those incidents when she was protected from harm poured forth from her heart. There is no greater gift but to give one’s life for a friend. Her mother contributed her voice to the lament of the requiem, but she is also one proud not to show too much emotion, she reverently touched the cold resting body as if to say “Thank you for being good to my daughter and farewell good friend.”

“We are known by our friends,” a homilist suggested.

Isn’t it interesting how we let attachments to people and things define or influence who we are? We all know we are not those things or people and they are not we but some how mystically and maybe magically a unique bond is often made between us that of this world. Sometimes it seems that these things or people have been coincidentally placed in our path to help us along until we can strike out with our own voice.  Maybe it is true that there is a purpose to all things. Maybe the divine intervention is greater than we can imagine. Ignatius says God is in all things. Some eastern teachers suggest Buddha comes in all forms.

So it was for number 2 and her companion, they became one…bold, adventurous, independent, no terrain forbidden, hope-filled, confident and ever strident. If you saw the companion it was easy to think number 2 and often the opposite was true. Then that unforeseen moment surfaced when the old friend would say farewell. All that had gone before was a formation process. Some behaviorists call this individuation while others suggest that as the universe constantly expands nothing stays the same. “Impermanence is life” write the cloistered Tibetan monks. The body, mind and spirit simply evolve say others.

Sometimes human nature often struggles to hold onto what has been and who has been with us during our experiences of maturation. That attachment to those and that which have been an essential part of the molding our own being can sometimes fetter us from becoming who we are meant to be. Some of us need more time and help in the art of becoming that we are. Then there are a few of those who seem to have been planted in holy ground and blossom with amazing grace.

It was in this situation that her once reliable friend had aged quickly. The miles traversed together were beginning to show their wear and tear. Tried, true and tested it was time. She was the vessel that delivered freedom and now she was being set free, her mission fulfilled. Her name appropriately described her purpose - Liberty.  As the family departed leaving her behind in her stillness she somehow broke the silence and said, “And, Thank you.”

A new journey with new adventures awaits the rogue warrior as she is welcomed to who she is to become. Though we are aware that things and others do not define who we are, we are sometimes fortunate to be cognizant of role others have played in the birthing of our own identity. The formation taken place and complete there comes that moment when it is right to be grateful for the blessing and move on to the next chapter.

She gave one last glance farewell to her resting black Jeep Liberty.




amdg

Finding John - Metanoia - First Anniversary Reflection

It has been one year since my surgery. Sometimes I feel that I have had a metanoia. Some days I don't seem to be that different at all.

"meta•noia
Pronunciation: \ˌme-tə-ˈnȯi-ə\
Function: noun
Etymology: Greek, from metanoiein to change one's mind, repent, from meta- + noein to think, from nous mind
Date: 1577
: a transformative change of heart ; especially : a spiritual conversion"

In being a college instructor of Homer's The Odyssey I have become studentof my own journey. The lessons of mythology and quest have provided me an opportunity to be introspective about the diverse encounters, challenges, defeats and victories that have made up my voyage. As a refugee who has been in exile it sometimes seems easier to be penitent for my own prodigal wanderings, especially when I look at the lifestyle and attitudes that led me to having "rusty pipes" and necessitate a CABG (that's medical speak for arterial by-pass surgery.)Reflecting on the consumption of steaks, lobsters,pizza, pasta, more pizza, alcohol and cigars accompanied by the well crafted skill of suppressing stress about work and life it is not hard to discern the root cause analysis to my own atherosclerosis disease. There is somewhat little comfort in the scientific analysis that genetics also played a role in the clogging my heart's blood pathways.

Since my surgery on August 4, 2008 a lot of time and spiritual energy has been expended in meditating on my holy longing pilgrimage to date and the choices and adventures that potentially lie ahead. I shared with my friend, a member of the band, that the by-pass surgery was a buoy marker in a channel on the way back to my home port, saying "no wake and slow down"(...the vessel.)But while reflecting on the events and actions that contributed to bringing this vessel to the brink of an earthly demise a sudden spark began to gradually illuminate this wayward darkened heart.

Somewhat like an Odysseus-in-training I have realized that God has been present protecting and guiding me during my self absorbing voyage. It was apparent that I am not the great explorer who had mapped out the navigation of a grand expedition of life and self discovery. Rather, the voyage has been a series of misadventures of a roving lost redemptive seeking accidental pilgrim. If I were to make any progress at all I would surely need the intervention of a loving all-forgiving God.

While maintaining a lifestyle that though not filled with debauchery or over self-indulgence it was none the less not a healthy life, physically or mentally. Of course I should have known better as I had a father who was overweight and forever consuming sticks of butter with chasers of scotch and smoking cigarettes as he worked his way slowly to a sudden heart attack. Then there were the close friends who drank alcohol heavily and smoked like industrial chimneys. They who showed no care for their earthly vessels and who would be dismissed from the race before they could finish. But floundering though this maze of gateways, walls and dead ends it has become apparent that God was laughing as I told him I had a plan (thank you Woody Allen for that image.)

The story of a possible redemptive trek is actually a long one so let I will attempt to highlight a few markers that have left some scar tissue near my heart.

After enduring a surprising quick sharp chest pain in June of 2008 in the company of a good friend Bernie and other companions on a golf course it was clear that this was not one's everyday ogita attack. My prayer was suddenly redirected from enjoying the day and playing a mistake free round of golf to hope for my survival. I finished the round scoring in the high 90's and though feeling physically ok my anxiety had not dissipated. Since I was near Lindsay's apartment I met her and her beau for a fast bite in a Mexican restaurant. When the frozen Margarita felt ragged and rough going down a concerned Linds asked if I wanted to get to a hospital. It was then I decided that maybe she was right and I planned to call my doctor.

First,I contacted and saw my regular doctor who then referred me to a cardiologist who in his panic attack about my condition almost scared me to death thereby eliminating the need for surgery! Check please! I mentioned this to an old business associate and friend, Les, who immediately referred me to his successful and famous cardiologist who saw me the same day of my conversation with Les. Quickly "Doc" scheduled a catheterization and potential stent .I called another friend, Hal, who had recently had the procedure and he told me that there was nothing to worry about, besides he would keep me in his prayers.

My prayers and prayer-time in the pre-dawn hours on my deck would become longer and more focused. I didn't realize then that this meditative experience would also become more peace-filling with every passing day as I got closer to having surgery. Oh, I didn't mention that my cardiologist closed me up after the catheterization and told Ginny and I that I had "rusty pipes" and stents wouldn't do much. Ginny's eyes welled up when the Doc said he called the best surgeon around to come in now for a consult. The Doc gently placed his hand on Ginny to console her. He advised that the potential alternative might of C.O.U.R.A.G.E., and interesting acronym for Clinical Outcomes Utilizing Revascularization and Aggressive Drug Evaluation may not be effective at this point. So I was left to digging down deep within to see how much "courage" I had for a by-pass.

Considering the circumstances the meeting with the surgeon went as well as one could expect I guess. He showed us a digital video of what the Doc saw during the catheterization. Yep, no doubt, two pipes had some serious blockage! He said he's done thousands of these and I asked "How many did you lose?" He quickly responded, "Not many, I can tell you." Though he thought my condition a serious event he counseled that surgery need not be particularly eminent for me it may be prudent to deal with the "devil we know now." Interesting choice of words don't you think? I told him we had a Springsteen concert, my birthday present from and with the family, and a Red Sox game in Boston to be at over the next two weeks. It was agreed and scheduled then as we decided on August 4, 2008 the day after the sox game. At that very instant all perspective on everything; my children, my wife, my dog, my family and friends, my life and my relationship with God all changed forever never to be the same. Some may call it transformation. a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYLNDuGsTEw">

But all the while I was on that meandering pilgrimage there was evidence of God's hand in moving me closer and closer in relationship with God until the point of no return. Just a day or so before I was about to go into surgery Fr. Bill suggested receiving the Sacrament of Healing. The notion scared the heebee gee bees out of Ginny for a moment. Her aged Catholicism recalled this blessing as the Sacrament of Extreme Unction (or anointing one who is near death.) Though I explained that the sacrament has evolved to be one of "healing and forgiveness" I too was afraid that someone might soon dust off Grantland Rice's poem to be read in remembering me.

Game Called. Across the field of play
the dusk has come, the hour is late.
The fight is done and lost or won,
the player files out through the gate.
The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,
the stands are bare, the park is still.
But through the night there shines the light,
home beyond the silent hill.

Game Called. Where in the golden light
the bugle rolled the reveille.
The shadows creep where night falls deep,
and taps has called the end of play.
The game is done, the score is in,
the final cheer and jeer have passed.
But in the night, beyond the fight,
the player finds his rest at last.

Game Called. Upon the field of life
the darkness gathers far and wide,
the dream is done, the score is spun
that stands forever in the guide.
Nor victory, nor yet defeat
is chalked against the players name.
But down the roll, the final scroll,
shows only how he played the game.

Fr. Gerry was the presiding celebrant on July 31, 2008 the memorial feast of St, Ignatius of Loyola, my favorite saint and founder of the Society of Jesus.Fr. Gerry conferred the sacrament of healing on me. After mass Fr. Tom came up to me hugged me and said "You know John, this sacrament works." I am not sure if it was the consolation of the blessings of Fr. Gerry or the love of Fr. Bill,Fr. Tom and the full house of congregants at mass that day or if was the Holy Ground I walked on...but I didn't want to leave. When I finally left I was "so full of love I could burst apart and start to cry."(Jefferson Airplane,Today)I did leave in a filled with hope and peace.

I feel if I chart the course that brought me to that point, that moment of receiving that sacrament it will be evident how God was navigating a true course for this vessel in spite of my corruptible humanness.

In 1980 as I was preparing to exit my career in higher education I had no idea where to go or what to do. Then that year on Ash Wednesday I saw a priest blessing staff and students with ashes. I thought "Why not? I need all the help I can get." That night I received a mysterious call from a Herb Wendell, head of a consulting firm. It was a strange call. We spoke of life, work, spirituality , business and family. He and his partner Les would soon offer me a job in their firm. Herb would become my big brother mentor in consulting and counselor and book provider in matters of faith. Les became my adviser and coach about the world of business. After a few months on their payroll they made me a project manager and sent me to Lake Charles, Louisiana where I would first meet the man who would become a lifelong friend, Joe. Later when Joe lost his job I helped him and he landed in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

In early '84 when Ginny announced the news of her first pregnancy I was completely overwhelmed. Feeling completely impotent in this matter I turned to the spiritual books and prayers that Herb had introduced me to as I sought help and entered the first church with open doors to enter and pray my heart out. Lindsay entered the world healthy and ready to go. Herb came to the hospital and said to Ginny "Great, now when are you going to have a son?"Herb would eventually have a quintuple by-pass and pass fifteen years later on Good Friday. Since Herb was always quoting his "Good friend--Jesus" my girls wondered if he would rise also on Easter Sunday.

Herb and Les would sell me their business and I knew that I was in over my head and my prayer started to become a daily affair. My first consulting assignment was to help close down and provide career help for laid off miners in Copperhill, Tennessee. I had prayed to God that I would never have to go to this forsaken place that was the setting for the movie "Deliverance." God laughed. Upon my arrival I realized that many of the supervisors at the mines were also preachers. Each one seemed to have a church in the valley. Their praying and preaching was not limited to their "Wednesday night prayer meeting services." That's where the whole family would dress up go to the local buffet restaurant and then off to their respective church for bible lessons, preaching and a whole lot of singing. These pastors were not self conscious of their behavior as they shocked me at my first business meeting up on the hill at the general office. Reverend Bob stood up before the VP convened the meeting and in a loud boisterous mountain folk drawl stated."THANK YOU JESUS!"Those in attendance whispered "amen." "THANK YOU JESUS FOR BRINGING JOHN HERE TODAY. BLESS HIS FAMILY WHILE HE IS HERE TO HELP AND SERVE US. FILL HIM WITH WISDOM AND COMPASSION." The group "Amen! Amen!" "HIS TASK IS DIFFICULT BUT DO NOT MAKE THIS A CROSS HE CANNOT BEAR. FILL HIS HEART WITH LOVE AND BLESS THIS DAY AND ALL OUR DAYS AND ALL THE MEN AND WOMEN WHO LIVE AND WORK IN THIS VALLEY! THANK YOU ,JESUS!!!" "Amen, amen, amen, alleluia!" My prayer and work life started to make a slow turn to heaven that day and continued.

Just as things started looking up for the business we received bad news from two clients in one day.A few hundred thousand dollars of revenue evaporated with two phone calls. That same evening at a career support group that I facilitated I shared with the group about the revenue loss that day. Two of the men said they would keep me in their prayers. Later that night I received a phone call from an ole friend and client, Joe, in Tulsa. He had a small project for me. The next morning the two men who had said they would pray for me called to say, independently, that they both had a dream that I had received a phone call and that the revenue loss I reported would be replaced tenfold. Their dreams would eventually come true. Now it was Joe who introduced me to Ban who would meet me in Tulsa and we would go to mass together each day at the local hospital. Ban graduated from Notre Dame and his dad was a major league umpire and his son played some ball for Boston Red Sox.We spoke a lot about God and baseball. Ban introduced me to an investment banker Hal (the man with who had the catheterization and stents.)Hal was once the head of JMJ Consulting (that's Jesus Mary and Joseph for all the non Catholics who might read this.)We still share email prayers and well wishes about the Red Soz.Hal live in New England.

Joe passed a few years ago waiting a liver transplant. The last words he spoke to me when I visited him in the hospital were"Please take care of yourself, my friend."
I am not sure if I fulfiled that request.

So back in 1987 Ginny informed me of a second child on the way in mid ‘88. Leigh would enter the world amidst a new flurry of prayers for her health and happiness. Herb came to the hospital again after Leigh's arrival asking Ginny "So are you two going to have a boy next time?"I think he knew how I felt so undeservedly blessed to have two daughters gracing my life and this world.

A year or so after Leigh's birth the Tulsa business started to grow. I was on a business trip to Tulsa in 1990 and sat on a plane next to a man, Dan S.. After striking up a conversation about business and faith he would invite me to my first Jesuit Ignatian retreat at White House just outside of St.Louis,Mo.. While at that retreat the Director of White House asked why I had never gone to Loyola retreat House in Morristown,NJ near my home. I told him that no one ever invited me. He referred me to the then Director there, Fr. Bill (who almost twenty years later would become my spiritual Director.) But in 1990 Fr. Bill referred me to Fr. Lou who would become my on and off spiritual director me for years. I met another former consultant,Pete,at Loyola. Pete, Herb and I would end up offering a special career workshops and support groups for unemployed adults at the retreat house. Pete, Lou and I would eventually collaborate on putting together a retreat on the "Spirituality of Work."On the night of our first retreat together I heard a knock on my door. I opened the door and Pete collapsed into my arms and I gave him a nitroglycerin tablet. He recovered in my room. I have my own stash now.

Lou moved on to other assignments but I made Loyola my "parish community."Pete had a couple of by-passes and stents and finally passed just a couple of years ago.

It was uncanny on how I discovered the peace of pre-dawn prayers on my deck just a few months before my surgery. I have been praying and writing in a prayer journal in the early morning hours for a few years. Suddenly one day I found myself outside facing a forest, a dark blue heaven gradually becoming brighter while a hoot owl sang his farewell, the cricket chorale faded and the morning birds started with their welcoming song. The peace of god surrounded me and slowly it began to penetrate my being...my heart and my soul. I believe it is this peace that helped me turn everything over to God that fateful morning as Ginny and I silently traveled together to the hospital. There I was checked-in quickly, showered and my body shaved and two kisses of farewell and a half-confident "see you soon" and as the "cocktail drip" began I silently recited the rosary as I had forgotten any other hope-filling prayer. Wheeled in to the operating room moved onto what seemed a stainless steel two by four arms stretched out...and next...a nurse is waking me in recovery.

In a fog due to anesthetics and the pain killers pumped into my body it was easy to recognize Lindsay, Leigh and Ginny when they first visited me but their faces seemed to drift in and out of a fog hanging over my bed. It was hard for me to communicate with them. Over the course of the next few days the pain and the fog diminished slightly but as Lindsay reports now, I was still in a daze and would drift in and out of awareness of their presence. She was worried that I might be that way forever. On the beginning of the third day after my surgery I recognized the crucifix hanging opposite my bed. "I am in a Catholic hospital", I thought and realized that I had not said a prayer since my surgery. I had had no desire to do much of anything. I didn't read, write or converse much with anyone, nor had I received communion from the visiting Eucharistic minister. Then it became quite obvious that the miraculous yet vicious pain killers had not only numbed my pain but had also numbed my spirit and my mind.

"No more pain killers" I commanded to the nurses and doctors! It was about that same moment when I noticed a nun who was distributing communion to patients as she passed by. I waved and she came in. She said I wasn't on her list to receive communion but we changed that and I received. She also mentioned that mass was televised each morning around 1130 on a special channel on TV. Later that day the Doc came in to say that I was recovering faster than normal. It was then that I noticed how things and I began to "change."

So it is on this first anniversary of my by-pass surgery that I am grateful for all the people, places and events that God placed on my journey. I am humbled by the fact how God countermanded all that I had done to myself and brought me to the people and place where my spirit and body would be healed and present me the opportunity for the Second Chance to "put on the new self." I can still feel the overwhelming power of the prayers from the hearts of my girls, my family and my friends for my healing.

If there is anything that I have learned from all this is that regardless of my sense of awareness God is present all-ways and if I doubt God's presence all I have to do is just open my heart.

"Take, O Lord, and receive my entire liberty,
my memory, my understanding and my whole will.
All that I am and all that I possess You have given me.
I surrender it all to You to be disposed of according to Your will.
Give me only Your love and Your grace;
with these I will be rich enough,
and will desire nothing more."

- St. Ignatius of Loyola

Of Anniversaries and Remembering

Ten days this June have been inundated with heavy rains accompanied by a flood of memories surrounding a group of planned and surpising public and personal anniversaries.My body and soul are still soaked!

Every moment of every day is an anniversary of sorts , aren't they? There are sad memories; joyous recollections; some memorable inconsequential events; people we recall who we have encountered , and places we have been that seem to kick start some emotional torrent of remembrances. Why does there seem to be so much excitement around anniversaries anyway these days? What's the significance of setting aside some time to recall a specific date or event yearly or on a regular basis? Not all events or circumstances from the past are worth celebrating , or are they? Isn't ok just to forget what has happened ? Aren't we supposed to live in the present? These are the kinds of questions that keep my brain from resting and sleeping at night . Maybe it was the memories surfaced by some recent anniversaries that fueled this sleepless inquisitiveness.Maybe I am just getting old.

The other day while reading about the 65th anniversary of the Normandy Invasion,D-Day, I found a surprising message pop up from Lindsay on my email . Lindsay reminded me that it was ten months to the day, June 4 2009 , since my CABG(by-pass surgery.) "My how time flies by", she added. Lindsay likes to keep track of events in her life like that.That event is an oft revisited turning point in our lives. I like to think of it as a little more spiritually transformative than a commencement exercise . Sometimes I really don't think much about how my surgery had impacted others . I think for Lindsay and Leigh that this date and event had a significant impact on their lives (more than I can imagine.) A friend of mine thinks that my personal attitude and approach to the surgery was a foundation for and influenced greatly how my daughters experienced it and recall it. Leigh has told me that she believes that since that surgery I am much "calmer" and "less stressed and stressing" now. I wonder about her and her sister.But maybe the remembering has to do with the unique bond between fathers and daughters.

This memorial article I was reading on the anniversay of D-Day also had an impact as it recalled for me how my dad was at the Normandy Invasion , "D- day plus three." He was a 19 year old tank commander in General George Patton's Third Armored Division. My father never spoke much about the war. The only time he seemed to verbalize his remembrances of the war or his feelings about that time in his life is when we would watch a movie about the war. He would quietly lecture that war was quite gruesome and not glamorous at all.He added that the violence and suffering was too horrific to recall, speak about or even portray on film.That infamous day in June and WW II was a transformative turning point for my father and millions of others. He also spoke about meeting my mother. This great world-wide drama and tragedy became a theater of coincidental events that brought my mother and father together. My mother was a "displaced Italian now a Brit" living in England and a member of the famous "Land Army." She met my "Yank" father who was stationed nearby her temporary home (where she lived and worked in England before dad departed for the great war on the continent.) After the war they would marry in the US and create a family and many memories and celebrations.

My friend Kirk once visited the vast battle memorial cemetery at Normandy,France. He shared a somber observation that the graves of so many young men reminded him that there were thousands who would never marry or have children. They wouldn't have birthdays,holidays and wedding anniversaries to celebrate. Yet, we would would remember that invasion and recall and pray for them on the anniversary of their great sacrifice.

June seems to be filled with a number of anniversaries. The media reminded us that this month and year is also the twenetieth anniversary of the Tienneman Square demonstrations and massacre in Beijing,China. It is not very hard to forget the picture of the one lone brave man who "faced down " the tanks as they entered the square to disperse the dissidents. As the tanks tried to avoid this one man he would move back into the path of the oncoming trembling rumbling mass of metal and firepower. There were thousands who stood up for freedom then when finally the Chinese government decided that "enough was enough." Many were killed and imprisoned for their desire and commitment to freedom.When I see that picture or recall those brave young people I remember the freedoms and gifts I have taken for granted. Additionaly, this anniversary causes me to think " What and who am I willing to die for ?"

Sometimes anniversaries come out of traditions. Lindsay came home for the weekend recently and we continued with our new small tradition of attending the celebration of the Mass at a small chapel at the Loyola House of Retreats on Sundays . That Sunday started as just another day t. I am slowly learning that though each day is gift and new it is also an anniverary for someone , for some thing or event.

Fr.Gerry, entered the chapel prepared as the "celebrant" to preside over the liturgy of the Eucharist wearing what appeared to be Irish accented adorned vestments. With a quiet smile and voice he humbly and proudly announced that the vestments he was wearing were the ones he wore 35 years ago at the presiding over and celebration of his first Mass as a priest. He was celebrating his anniversary on the feast day, and annual celebration and remembrance , of the Holy Trinity. It was Fr. Gerry who blessed me with the Sacrament of Healing on the Feast day of St. Ignatius Loyola ten months ago and a couple of days before I went in the hospital for my heart surgery. I am grateful for a variety of reasons for Gerry's commitment , vows and of course his prayers. Lindsay and I were honored to celebrate his annivesary with him.

Now it is just a couple of days before the anniversay of exchanging marriage vows with Ginny. Though we believed that we had mapped out our future course adequately we had no idea where the journey would take us or how we would survive the unforseen adventures yet to come. Our odyssey together has been marked with many blessings, joys, trials and broken hearts.Fr. Bill queried about the secret of making it so far.My response, "a lot of work, love, faith and some more work." But in remembering all the challenges and blessings it is not hard to think about how just ten months ago when we worried that our eyes would meet and lips would touch for one last time as they rolled me into surgery. Ginny said she doesn't remember that moment that way. Sometimes the remembering is quite personal and a matter of perspective,isn't it?

Suddenly , somehow a mild illumination seeps through the cracks of this travel worn weathered soul.What I have read in volumes over the years affirms a central theme that has been the topic of exchanges with my friends, Fr. Lou and Fr. Bill. Without getting in to a theological and psychological treatise , the notion is very simple...

...it is sometimes easier for our simple human hearts and minds to see and understand God in our life and journey in retrospect.

Whether we are experiencing good times or enduring the trials of the world, the presence and fullness of the love of God may not always be fully appreciated in the present. St. Ignatius stresses the importance of "remembering" as prayer.

Maybe this is one essential truth of the significance and purpose of celebrating annivesaries.


"Remembrance is a form of meeting"
- Kahil Gibran

"We sanctify all we are grateful for "
- Anthony DeMello SJ

"My how time flies by"
- Lindsay

amdg

Faithful Companion

The following is an edited excerpt from a chapter in my yet to be published manuscript ...and I dedicate this to my faithful companion .

.......................................

"The word companion is said to have it’s roots in the latin
'cum – pane', or 'with bread', meaning two or more sharing bread(meals) on their journey together. "

The Society of Jesus(The Jesuits) was originally called “The Company of Jesus." Some have suggested that this name comes from St. Ignatius roots in the military (company) and the Jesuits were known as “soldiers of Christ.” But the Jesuits thought of themselves as “companions” of Jesus being broken and being fed by Jesus on their journey together. Jesuits are well known as ones who share in their journey as partners and friends of Jesus with all they encounter. Maybe it had to do with that they were sharing in the “bread of Christ”. ....

...The term companion implies intimacy, mutual unconditional dedication and love. In some dictionaries the definition includes examples of spousal relationships to demonstrate the lifelong commitment. In the Catholic Church , and many religions, marriage is a “sacrament”, a consecrated relationship. When one speaks of having a companion we automatically associate that this relationship has a special connection with a bond that exceeds that of all other relationships. This bond doesn’t need words to be said to affirm that this relationship , as this association is a spiritual one with those involved. Those "companions" know that they are called together for a purpose that is greater than themselves as individuals.

There are all different kinds of companions who join us on different kinds of journeys. Companions can be found in spouses, religious congregations, intimate friends, companies, organizations and any group of two or more with a common mission. But I believe that core qualities that qualify the relationship to be that of a “companion” are for the relationship to be:

* One with a synergistic mission (a common single purpose objective or essence) of the duo or group

* Intimacy – mutual trust and unconditional respect and love,

* Collaborative – true sharing and giving without want or desire of return to help achieve the common good.

I have a very special companion. He has the uncanny ability to sit and listen to me. If I complain about this or that, he listens intently. When I am lonely or sad he is quick to lend a comforting ear. If it is a time when I just want to explore and talk about the interconnectedness of the universe or the lack of spirituality in politics he pays attention to every word. He is quick to forgive my moodiness and just as quick to celebrate a laugh and smile. In the silence of the early morning hours he accompanies me in the solitude of prayer. Did you ever have a soul mate that mirrors your own feelings and perspectives? That’s my companion. When my daughters come home for an extended stay I must admit his enthusiasm is much more demonstrable than my own but he reflects what is in my own heart.

There have been sometimes when I have confided in him solely. He need not say a word to show his compassion. Just his presence is “compassion” enough. He makes no demands of me. We just enjoy being together. Early on in our relationship he was filled with youthful exuberance and would push the behavior envelope but we learned to adjust to each other. He is loyal to me to a fault. I have no doubt that he is a spirit sent by God .He is companion in every sense of the term. Patient friend, confidante, collaborator, protector, faithful and supportive. His spirit is more authentic than mine. We are all creatures of God and this creature is a blessing to me and all he encounters. He is my true companion. He is a Labrador Retriever. His name is Dylan Valentine. Yes, and we do share our food, mine for him and some of his for me!"

copyright 2008

................

For my dear friend and companion Dylan Valentine who left this world after 12 wonder-filling years on May 28,2009( and for all faithfull companions.)

Though I miss him his spirit remains. I thank him for his unconditional love.

.................

I am not there

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
- - Mary Elizabeth Frye

amdg

"Home" is where the heart is!

Lindsay,my oldest,invited me to watch her play in a corporate softball game the other night. Though I was focsued on delighting in her play and the events on the field,I couldn't stop the avalanche of memories about baseball. Visions of hundreds of fields of dreams: from tee-ball and varsity softball games with both my daughters to my own meanderings and hustling around the bases of the great diamond of life. I couldn't stop this virtual video tape and thinking of how the "game" has been a home for me and how it touched and taught me so many lessons.

I recalled a chapter in my yet to be published manuscript about one part of my life and one person I met on a ball field years ago and how his spirit still lives with me today. His offer to give me a "second chance" changed my life forever.


Here is that Chapter_______________________________________________________


COACH


Baseball is about coming home. The whole point of the game is to finish where you begin – home plate – and once you are home you are finally safe.
From Kim Fabricus’ Blog on Faith and Theology

“In my beginning is my end…
Home is where one starts from…
In my end is my beginning.”

- T. S. Eliot, “East Coker”


Dave, who was a client and Vice president of sales for for a Fortune 100 company, asked me one of the most difficult questions that I have considered in a long time. I was always challenging him to think “outside the box” concerning business matters and he threw a curve ball at me that came from deep outside... the realm of our business relationship. He pierced me so deeply that my heart decided to skip a beat as I caught my breath. Right in the middle of a substantive exploration of marketing strategy he grabbed my arm and queried, “Have you ever had a personal relationship within someone who inspired you?”

I stalled him for a minute as my brain sweated searching for an accurate honest meaningful response. The synapses in overdrive surfaced an almost thirty-year-old recollection reaching my vocal chords humbly whispering “my coach.” I then explained to Dave how I used to get fitted for special shoes by a foot doctor who told my parents that my feet were crooked and so flat . The Doctor said unequivically I should forget about playing sports. The doctor even went so far as recommending that I take up a musical instrument or get a hobby like stamp collecting. My ten-year-old spirit was broken. Everyone in a neighborhood filled with boys and girls my own age thrived on the freedom of playing every sport and game that could fill a child’s imagination. I would join in where I could but I found myself often sitting in front of the TV watching Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle battle for the home run crown in the major leagues and daydream seeing myself on a ball field.

Did you ever have one of thos fat-filled days? One of those fate-filled days came my way when a group of the boys in the neighborhood asked if I wanted to come with them to the little league baseball tryouts. No one except for my parents and I knew of what the doctor had told me about sports. Not wanting to divulge this heartbreaking secret I decided to join them at the tryouts. This was an era when only the best players were selected for this league and I knew I had no chance in hell of making a team. I had not even practiced throwing or batting since I had received the doctor's diagnosis and recommendation. Filled with anxiety about embarrassing myself I rode my bike two miles to the tryouts. What was I to do? How could I even get out on the field with the other boys?

At that time the players trying out for pitcher would pitch to the players trying out at bat. With the luck of the Polish I drew Paul P. the best pitcher in the town with the fastest fastball this side of Whitey Ford. Much to my surprise and the delight of my companions I made contact with every strike he threw over the plate! But when it came to running the bases I was always next to last or last. Then came the moment defined as the thrill of victory or the agony of rejection. All the players trying out to make a team sat in the outfield as the coaches compared notes. Finally after forever sitting the league's director came out to read the list of names of all the boys who were selected by a team. They called the names of every boy in my neighborhood; Billy, Bruce, Dennis, Will and Richy. But my name was not called. My companions tried to console me but I grabbed my bike and darted home alone humiliated. “Why had I done this? Why was I so stupid to even try?”

Later that same evening as I sat crying alone in my room my mother called me to come downstairs. There was a phone call for me. The man introduced himself as “Coach B.” He said he saw me at tryouts today and wondered why I hadn’t signed up to play in the town recreation league. I had never heard of such a thing. He explained that this league was basically for boys who couldn’t commit to the rigors of little league play.Boys who had to go on family vacations or had summer school or other commitments and who might miss a game or two could not play little league baseball would play in this recreation league. I knew there must be a catch. He also explained it was for boys who wanted to play baseball but who tried out for little league and didn’t make a team or who chose not to play little league. “A league for losers” I thought! He continued that his son played in the recreation league because they had other family commitments but his son was quite good. “Typical father” I smirked under my breath. He then explained how he liked my batting and fielding skills and wanted me to play on his team if I was interested. Did I want to play with a bunch of rejects? Did I want to play with a bunch of losers or kids who couldn’t commit to a season of baseball? “Yes, of course. I would love to play” I responded without hesitation. We had practice tomorrow. I was elated! I was on a team!!!

Adrenaline pumping a mile a minute, the smell of wooden bats and leather baseballs, glove filled with a fresh coat of linseed oil I rocketed my bike about a mile or so to the practice field the next day. Upon my arrival I saw this short older man with crutches standing near the players bench and he slowly struggled as he waddled his way over to me standing alone by my bike. He introduced himself “Hi, lefty, I’m Coach B.” “Great! My God, my coach is a cripple,” I thought. He then clarified that he was really the assistant coach. Why’d he call me “lefty?” He later introduced me as “lefty” to the head coach and the other players on the team. Later I discovered I was the only left handed thrower and batter on the team. I was also the youngest and it would soon become obvious to all…the slowest. Though I didn’t play much that season I proudly wore my team shirt bearing the name of our sponsor “Tom’s Market” everyday.

While the head coach worked with the starters mostly, Coach B. would work with the subs and younger players. He had a calm demeanor and was extremely kind and very very patient with each one of us. He could see in my eyes that I wanted so much to be with the starters. He seemed to take me under his wing and he had his son, Robbie, who was a starter, pitch to me in batting practice for at least an hour after the rest of the team had departed. He taught me how and where to stand in the batter's box, how to watch the pitcher, how to see the ball and how to make contact. Over and over again each day he would stand outside the batters cage. ”Good swing. Now let’s try that again.” I had forgotten all about my feet, my running and my being rejected by the other league.

When the season ended coach called me a said that the next year he would have a team of his own as head coach and that he wanted me to play on it. I said “sure” but I felt that my batting had improved so much that I would try out again for little league. When the next spring started to show its colors and kids ran to the parks to warm up for the next season I thought twice about little league. My friends thought I was nuts as my batting skills had improved almost 1,000 percent but I decided to play with Coach B.

That next year Coach continued to work with me on batting and though not a full time starter he decided to work with my fielding . No one had ever paid this much attention to me before. He would stand with his crutches holding himself up in the outfield as I shagged grounders and fly balls. Gently he would say, “Get the glove in front of the ball. Bend over. Think where you will make the play if the ball is hit to you.” It was that summer that I realized that his wife would drive he and Robbie to practices and games. Someone finally told me that Coach had polio but I don’t know,even to this day, if that was the truth or not. I was so absorbed in the experience of practice and playing I had forgotten that he had a disability. I had not thought of his struggles, his pain or his life. But then Coach never complained and in some respects I had forgotten that he had physical limitations.

That summer was a Zen experience as I was consumed with everything baseball and the days flew by faster than a Texas windstorm. I couldn’t wait for the next season. It would be my last year playing in the league, as I would be twelve years old the maximum age allowed by this league.

Well by the next season I had dropped about 15 pounds of my roly poly fat and shot up about five or six inches. Most importantly the team finally had full uniforms with major league team names. We were just like the Little League and our team was called "The Senators." I had the coolest looking navy blue hat with a big bright “S” in the middle. I wore that hat everywhere I would go. Father Nelligan would make me take it off whenever I walked into church. I didn’t mind.I would have worn it as I served as an altar boy at mass!

This was the year that I finally became a full time starter. I played either first base or left field and always batted third or fourth in the lineup. I had finally made it! At our first game we played a team that was coached by the head coach of my very first team and this coach asked Coach B. “who was the tall kid in left field? He’s pretty good” he said. Coach B. explained it was “lefty” from three years ago.

I knew I was doing much better that last season. I did get on base more often and had a few home runs to my credit but I was clueless about my statistics. I was just feeling really good about myself. Just as everything was falling into place there was that one game when a sure pop fly was hit right to me. There was a kid on third and I thought that I needed to grab the ball and make a clean throw to keep him from tagging up. Before I knew it the ball had hit my glove and quickly popped out before I could squeeze the glove shut. I picked up the ball and noticed the boy who was on third was scoring home. I was mortified. I did not have an error this year! I had let my team down. I had let me down. I had let coach down. At the end of the inning a slowly walked over to the bench and sat by myself not saying a word to anyone. Coach came over placed his crutches on the bench and without looking at me, his eyes fixed on the field said ,"Did you see that Maris (Roger Maris my left hand batting hero) had struck out three times last night? It happens to the best of us. But remember even if you want to be a Maris first you have to be yourself. Be true to who you are and who you want to be. That’s what matters. ” He grabbed his crutches and walked away.Somehow,someway he had the right words to say.

Later after that same game of the "big error" coach announced the three players from our team who would represent The Senators on the American League all star team in the rcreation league "all-Star" game. He mentioned his son Robbie, who was clearly the best pitcher in the league and Espo who was clearly the best and fastest short stop in the league. Then he said “lefty.” I don’t know why but I was shocked, delighted, surprised, and overwhelmed as my teammates congratulated me. They were not surprised. They told me I had the best batting average in the league. I was so wrapped up in playing the game it was the first time I had known about my stats.

Our team went on to win the division championship and would play the Pirates in the league championship game. Unfortunately I came down with some serious virus just a few days before the championship game and was still not feeling well the day of the game. I had to plead my parents to allow me to play. I explained it was my last game. It was the championship. It was everything I had worked for. It was for coach. At the 11th hour my parents agreed and they drove me to the field and we arrived just as the game was starting. Coach didn’t have me in the lineup and would put me in as a pinch hitter. Then I noticed who was pitching for the Pirates, it was Paul P, the best pitcher from Little League! He had dropped out of little league and decided to play in the recreation league. Our pitcher, Robbie coach’s son, was the best in our league. It became a pitcher’s duel. I finally got the call in the second inning to be a pinch runner of all things! I was a step faster than the boy who had walked and got on base. The next batter went down in three pitches. He next time I got up was in the fourth inning and Coach gave me the “take” sign and I was walked in just five pitches. We were soon out of the inning after our next three batters grounded and struck out. It came down the bottom of the sixth, the finally inning in youth baseball and it was 0-0 and it seemed as though Paul P. was just warming up. I finally got up to bat again and fouled two screamers down the right field baseline. The next four pitches were all high and outside and I was on base. I was angry that I didn’t get a chance to get a hit. Espo was up next and the first pitch was a wild pitch and I made it standing up to second base. Coach gave the sign to Espo and me to “hit and run.” Was a he nut? It’s me,lefty the second slowest kid on the team! " But I got set and gathered up every bit of positive psyche and energy a twelve year old can muster. Espo then cracked one up the right center gap and I took off. I saw Coach at third base waving me home. The only sound was my heart beating fast and furious and the piston driven puffing breaths as I rounded third to home. There was Robbie who was on deck holding up his arms. He didn’t want me to slide so I motored over home right into his arms. There was an error in the outfield and I made it home without a play at the plate and it hit me…”We were the champs!”

I saw my parents cheering on the bench but I turned and continued my run back up the third base line and jumped crying into coach’s arms. We had done it. He had done it.

There was more to the story I told Dave D. about Coach and that year but Dave interrupted me again. “Do you keep in touch with him?” Another darting shot. I felt horrible when I answered that I had lost touch with him. Soon after my meeting and rekindled memories with Dave feeling guilty I tracked down coach and called him on the phone. The first person to answer was his daughter who now was taking care of him. She remembered me right away. She told me how she was so jealous of me and the boys on our team. “You guys always got his attention and love.” I told her how sorry I was but I went on to explain how important Coach had been for all the boys and especially for me. He was a man with a disease and disability but he didn’t let that have an effect on his love and his desire to help us (me.) “He taught me to be myself, to be proud of myself and that I have more ability in me that I give myself credit. I am given talents for a reason and I need to use all of my ability if I am really to be genuine.” She understood. Her dad wasn’t home but she would give him the message that I called. It was a day later when Coach called. When I picked up the phone he said”Hello, Lefty!” We talked for hours and exchanged addresses. We corresponded and over the years and I included pictures of my girls who were both athletes in my Christmas cards to him. When I was the head of a consulting firm I kept the baseball glove I used when I played for coach on my desk. It was a reminder for me of the Coach and for me to be myself and to use all of my talents and gifts no matter what I do.

I received a returned Christmas card “address unknown - No forward possible” this past December. It was my annual Christmas card to Coach. I am afraid he is passed now but he is not passed from my heart and my memory.

Time has continued to be mark itself close to the final innings of my own game of life. After my bypass surgery last August somedays I feel I have made it in to extra innings! Not too long ago,though,I had managed a special program that educates disabled young adults in computer technology. I gained a greater appreciation of those with disabilities. I had a wonderful diverse group of dedicated students of all ages and disabilities in our program. We were providing these individuals with a "second chance" and the opportunity for hope,dignity and to thrive as themselves.This experience helped me develop a greater appreciation of what Coach must have been going through when he worked with the team years ago; his pain and his physical limitations. I don’t even know if he had a job or what he did to earn a living. I just know that he loved his family and the team. His spirit was never disabled. I pray that I was able to pass on the spirit of hope Coach B instilled in me to my disabled students . I am also hopeful that I have the strength and wisdom to continue to do so to those I encounter in each inning of my life.

I thank Coach for his love and the "second chance." I thank God for bringing coach into my life .

Today if you come in to my office you will still find my glove that my dad gave me that I used when I played for the Coach.It is a little less flexible now and a little cracked and worn.(Much like me I guess.) It's age doesn't diminish,though, what Coach taught me - to play and live with enthusiasm, dignity and integrity, and to always be my authentic self.

amdg

- Copyright 2008