Category: Prose

Reflections on Three Days of Blindness—Part I

Thirty years ago I experimented with being blind. I covered my eyes for three days and lived briefly as a blind man.

The questions occurred to me when I was eighteen, several months out of high school, while contemplating my life and the world around me: “What must it be like to live in this world, for people who are blind? I wonder how I would manage if I was blind? I wonder how they manage?”

I would like to share my discoveries from that time with you, the answers that I learned to these questions. Because the answers, I think, have value not only for those who wonder what it might be like to be blind, as I did, but also for anyone wondering about the unknown, frightened perhaps a little about change, or fearful of what the future holds in this life or the next. And for anyone desiring to bridge the gap between themselves and those who are different from them, the results of this little experiment also might be useful.

The means of making myself blind were simple and very effective. First, I covered my eye sockets with cotton balls. Next, I covered over the cotton balls with large gauze pads, and then I used surgical tape to tape down all of the edges of the pads to my face, sealing entirely around the pads which covered my eyes. Lastly, I put on sunglasses. This last step was entirely for cosmetic and reasons of vanity, because, after the first two steps I couldn’t perceive even the tiniest trace of light, shade or shadow, so the sunglasses were completely redundant and superfluous. But they made me look good, so I thought, and I was eighteen after all; sunglasses are cool.

During my three day experiment I kept a detailed journal: tracking my activities, my thoughts and feelings, and my conclusions. It is mainly from this journal that I would like to share with you my journey and discoveries. In some cases, I’ll paraphrase or provide commentary as I look back on the experiment from the vantage point of a forty-eight year old adult, but in most cases I’ll let my original journaling speak for itself, in the original voice as I wrote when I was eighteen. I will set these original entries in quotes, and italicize them, so as to clearly delineate what is from that time, from what is my current commentary.

 

Prelude to Day One of My Experiment with Three Days of Blindness:

“Awaiting blindness, Friday night, February 12, 1988. 11:00pm. is something

            like what I imagine awaiting one’s execution might be like. As I wait, I try

            to indulge my senses as one who was about to die might enjoy and cling to his

            last meal, or his final breath. I’m scared, even though it isn’t permanent. A dark,

            dark prison is what it might be like, or maybe it’s really a doorway to a greater

            consciousness, a larger freedom. Who knows—I don’t. I’m writing this before

            my evening reading and meditation which, when I’m done, will be followed by

            covering my eyes for the duration of three days—a relatively short time but

            enough time, I think, to glimpse into the world of darkness, to somewhat

            feel what it is like not to see. I will uncover my eyes on Monday the 15^th at sun-

            set, on the hill overlooking my home and surrounding neighborhood. Until

            then these pages will be written by a seeing man who doesn’t see. Or does

            he? Goodnight.”

 

Day One of My Experiment with Three Days of Blindness:

            “I am feeling very frustrated. There are so many things I can’t do. I am constantly

            running into things or knocking them over. I’ve broken a glass and spilled a lot

            of water today. Victories include riding my unicycle around the block and walk-

            ing around Safeway to get some whipped cream. In both cases, I was accompan-

            ied by my good friend, Nicole. However, I felt very isolated at the grocery store.

            I can’t help but feel that people with handicaps aren’t liked by those without them.”

 

Looking at this entry and remembering back to that grocery store visit, I can still recall a sense that I had of being looked at in a way that felt like unkindness, and even though I couldn’t see them, I felt that people were uncomfortable with my presence.

            “This is still my first day of blindness. It’s about 6:15pm. I am fairly certain about

            this because I’ve guessed the time within 3 minutes of accuracy throughout the

            day today. The ability to know the time is still amazingly precise even without

            eyesight. I remember when I was younger, closing my eyes and walking slowly

            towards a wall, and I remember as I got closer to the wall, within a few feet of it,

            I could begin to sense that it was there. I could feel a darkness, a slight pressure

            exerted upon my face. The same is true today, but to an even greater degree.”

 

I don’t know why I was able to know the time so accurately, or how it is I could feel the wall from a distance. These, and many other experiences forthcoming are unexpected, and seem to show abilities in perception that we possess, of which we are not normally aware.

            “Earlier this afternoon I pulled out my unicycle and decided to try it out. The

            wheel was a little flat so I’d be riding slower than usual, but that was okay

            with me since I couldn’t see where I was going. It would have been impossible

            to do had I been alone, but Nicole was over today and she helped me.

 

            At first it was really hard. I was shaking because I was scared, and I couldn’t get

           on. Eventually I got going, went a little ways down the street, chickened out and

            jumped off. I walked back to about where I started to try again. To get my bear-

            ings I walk to the side of the road and count the number of steps across. The mid-

            dle of the road is seven steps from the curb. After a few more short journeys I

            begin to gain confidence. With Nicole in front of me I follow her voice and begin

            the long trek around the block.”

            

           “A car is coming up the street, so I get off the unicycle and walk to the side of the

            street. Apparently sensing, without sight, when something is in front of you, is a

            skill that requires concentration and some perfecting. I haven’t. I walked full-

            force into a parked truck. It was actually funny and I’m sure the people in the

            passing car enjoyed it also. Nicole laughed.

 

            Again, I centered myself in the street, mounted my unicycle and took off follow-

            ing her voice around the block. Rounding the curves are the best part; they

            seem a lot harder than the straightaways. In complete darkness I rush forward,

            trusting my guide’s voice, feeling very free in my solitary world.

 

            Around the second corner, and back up the other side of the block. I can hear

            kids playing something up the street. Distracted by this, I falter but maintain my

            balance and continue. By now both Nicole and I are comfortable with the sit-

            uation and I begin to speed up. Around the third corner and feeling great, only

            one more to go and I’m home.

 

            I’m not sure what happened, but Nicole didn’t tell me about the van. I was

            moving at a pretty good clip but apparently also veering slightly towards the

            side of the road. Suddenly, before hitting it, I did feel something very big right

            in front of me. I stalled, spun and dismounted. Reaching out with my arm ex-

            tended I felt with my hand the cold metal of the vehicle. I felt very lucky having

            somehow escaped a potentially messy situation. But how did I know it was

            there in time to stop? I was at least three feet away when I first felt it, probably

            more. This ability to sense objects in our paths without seeing them isn’t just a

            theory, it is definitely a reality and it just saved me. The world of the blind is

            not a sightless world.”

 

Looking back on this, I remember at the time, the most memorable aspect of this experience was the adventure, and the freedom of facing the darkness and my fear, and overcoming them.  That is still an important lesson for me, but now I’m particularly struck by the togetherness and friendship that Nicole and I had, as we faced this adventure, and as she helped me overcome what I couldn’t have done on my own.

            “Vision. It is important to imagine and to create images to compensate in a

            way for what I can’t see. To be able to picture in my mind what my surround-

            ings look like is crucial. I wonder what people who were born blind can picture?

            I bet a lot of their imaginings, their images, are better than our reality. I wonder

            if they would be let down to really see. To get a good look at the pollution in the

            air above Santa Rosa and the disgusting trash that lines every road and even

            invades the innocence of my hill. No, I bet they would love to see even that.”

 

             “Memory also plays an important role in my blindness. It goes hand in hand

            with visualization. Remembering where things are and how they are organized.

            In the kitchen I visualize the counter, set down my glass, walk to the stove, turn

            the knob one-quarter turn to the right, crack the eggs and cut the tofu…do I

            remember where the seasoning is located? Yes, it is in the front of the rotating

            dolly on the shelf above me. Add it to the eggs and tofu already cooking, return

            to the counter…remember, and save the glass that I left there…forget, and break

            it.  I’ve done both today.

 

            Visualize the toothpaste going onto the toothbrush. Good. Do I remember what

            my mom looks like? Yes, of course, it hasn’t been that long, but if I was blind

            for a long time I would wish that someone would care, and understand enough

            to ask me to tell them what she looks like. Or ask me to describe a banana, and

            to explain what green is and where it is found. I mustn’t forget and neither

            should anyone else.

 

            Luckiest event today—having forgotten the car was parked in the driveway,

            visualizing an empty driveway I walk across it to the garage. Somehow I missed

            the car and made it safely to the garage. I had visualized myself walking up the

            middle of the driveway, I guess I was wrong.

 

            End of my first day. I’m tired.”

 ~FS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

           

           

 

It isn’t so much the quantity, but the manner in which we eat, that is the greatest problem for our souls. A smaller person will obviously need less food than does a larger person, so if the larger person eats a greater quantity of food this doesn’t make him a greater glutton. It is very possible the larger person, while eating a copious quantity of food, could do so in a manner, and with a spirit more focused on God, in virtue, than the smaller man does in eating his biscuit or loaf of bread.

Let us always keep God foremost in our minds, with thankfulness, as we eat our daily bread. And not eat mindlessly, simply shoveling it in without thought or gratitude, being mindful of how much is enough for us, stopping before we are filled to our limit. For even with a good mental outlook, a full belly can still be an impediment to our peaceful communion with God, instead, leading to scattered thoughts and a scattered way of living.

~FS

Chapter 4—A Different Point of View

Up until now I’ve told you Fritz and Rocco’s story essentially from my perspective, merely that sliver of life which I can see and understand.  But in truth, there is so much more to their story, so much more beyond what I can tell you on my own, things such as what it is they say to one another in their doggie language, or what is the content of their dreams, and what adventures do they get up to when we’re not around?

These things are true and real, and just because I am unable to express them to you myself doesn’t mean they don’t exist. And since they do exist, and are part of their story, I think they are things that you should know.

So I will introduce to you another story-teller, a second narrator to share their tale, and together he and I, with your help too, we’ll explore deeper into this interesting and funny world of Fritz and Rocco. This new narrator is Imagination, mine and yours, but not simply make-believe, no, it is imagination more like empathy—that ability we all have to put ourselves in another’s place, to walk in their shoes for a while, so to speak. Or in this case we shall be walking in another’s paw-steps for a little while:

The first night in their new home, it was clear to both Fritz and Rocco that their owners intended to have them sleep at night in a pen, in a remote downstairs room—far, far away from their own bedroom. But this would not do, and Rocco decided to make some noise to voice his displeasure to the two upstairs:

“Leaving us alone!?!

Shih-tzus never sleep downstairs!

Shih-tzus sleep on beds!!!”

At first this didn’t get any action, so he repeated his complaint several more times until one of the people, the bigger one, came into the room and made a swishy sound with his lips.

Rocco looked at Fritz and they both looked at the person. Fritz nudged Rocco and said, “Open your eyes really big, let your ears droop, and look really sad. And wag your tail!” They tried this together and it worked! The person picked them up, one in each arm, and carried them upstairs and put them on the bed. Fritz found a wonderful warm place between the people, up tight against the smaller one that smelled better and Rocco cuddled into the covers at the foot of the bed, near the feet of the bigger one that had carried them upstairs.

As Fritz drifted off to sleep he whispered to Rocco, “Isn’t this the best…I can’t wait for snacks in the morning!”

Rocco agreed, snacks would be a good thing to look forward to, and as he drifted off to sleep himself, he mused about the naivete of the new people they now lived with, and how little they understood about living with magnificent creatures like Shih-tzus. He would have to teach them so many things about proper respect and deference but he also could tell they were willing to learn and had good hearts so he felt certain he would be able to train them well, given the proper amount of time. Sleep overcame him as he sang this little rhyme to himself:

“They wanted us to sleep on rugs,

They must have mistaken us for Pugs,

Not a pest, nor a jest,

We’re simply the best,

‘Cause bed dogs are better than bed bugs.”

 

~FS

 

 

 

Chapter 3—The Super Great Outdoors

Now, speaking of neighborhood dogs, cats and errant squirrels, our little buddies began meeting a host of friends and some foes; although, with their good natures, they had very few foes. What foes they had, could, with a little persuasion, be turned into friends, given time.

Gizmo was the first friend they met in the neighborhood. He was a tall Australian Shepherd-Boarder Collie mix and, as you might expect, he had a love for chasing balls and things. This is a very exciting quality for a little dog like Fritz, who also loves to run and chase things, so they became fast friends.

Rocco, on the other hand, made friends a little more slowly and from a distance, perhaps because he is small and easily stepped on, but also he is less guided by utter trust and unbridled acceptance, as is Fritz. From a hundred yards off, Fritz will see you, and know for certain in his little heart that you will be his best friend and you will love him, and he will run straight at you across those hundred yards, staring directly into your eyes the whole way, while smiling his sweet, wide little canine smile, his puffy brown tail trailing out furiously behind him, until he reaches you and he stares up at you, wildly hoping to be lifted up to kiss your face, or at least that you will bend down and pet his chest, and let him sniff your breath.

Sniff your breath?!?  I know, I know, it sounds a little strange, but Fritz is a connoisseur of smells. If you will let him, this is his favorite way to say hello. And if you’ll open your mouth, he will take a long, deep sniff, assessing and analyzing and discovering untold mysterious things about you, things that you likely don’t know about yourself, but don’t worry, he won’t tell anyone, except maybe, just his brother.

Rocco takes just as much delight in this kind of greeting as Fritz does, and possibly the two will discuss their findings among themselves, after you’ve gone, of course, so as not to embarrass you, because they are polite little dogs after all.

The next neighborhood friend they made was Pookey, the cat that lives next door along with Gizmo. Pookey ran from Fritz and Rocco and this was absolutely wonderful, and by far the very best thing she could possibly do, to make them love her.

There were few things in their puppy lives that were as joyful as chasing Pookey, and she didn’t have the same nasty and somewhat dangerous habit of turning on them with pointy claws, as did their cat companion Aslan, who lived with us all in our own home. No, Pookey didn’t fight back, she just ran, and on one occasion Fritz was even able to catch her and pin her for a moment, before she squirmed away and fled frantically into her house.

It was the only time either Fritz or Rocco had ever actually caught Pookey, and the moment was swift and fleeting, but it had made an indelible impression on their young minds, and the possibility of a recurring opportunity filled them with hope and desire. Ever since then there hasn’t been a time we’ve passed Pookey’s home, that they haven’t run straight to her door and waited expectantly for another chance to catch her.

Even better than that though, was the time they found a somewhat injured squirrel in the groundcover.  I promise, the squirrel wasn’t badly hurt, he probably only stubbed his toe on a rock as he was hiding a nut under the leaves, but he was caught off-guard when Rocco and Fritz discovered him hiding in the plants. I believe at first they only intended to say hello, and inquire if they could offer assistance, but well, when the squirrel fled in a crazed and haphazard way, it really was too much to ask the puppies not to give chase. And when it was apparent that the squirrel’s stubbed toe slowed him down quite a lot, Fritz saw the opportunity only typically offered to him in really good dreams, so he intensified his pursuit.

The squirrel zigged, and then zagged, and ran circles around the driveway with Fritz in hot pursuit. The squirrel spun, and Fritz spun. The squirrel leaped and Fritz leaped. And Fritz caught him! Again, for only an instant, but long enough to fill his little soul with such satisfaction and elation, and fill his mind with memories never to be forgotten, and it gave him a story that would be the envy of many dogs, even those much bigger, older and stronger than he.

~FS

 

 

 

 

Catching a demon with his Pants Down

I was walking to my truck today and as I passed another man on the sidewalk, we said hello to one another and continued on our way. He looked me in the eyes and in a subtle flash of a moment I noticed that something inside me averted my eyes, and didn’t want to be seen. His gaze, like headlights—my lies and deceits, like a deer—stood frozen for a quick moment, exposed and afraid under his momentary gaze, until this something inside me convinced me to look away.

Who was that, what was that within me? There was no specific shame, no specific thought or image that ran for shelter inside me, but a general fright caused this little panic, and caught my interest. As I continued walking, I decided not to let this little shifty creep off the hook, I decided to pursue this poltergeist within me to see of what it is made, from where it came, and to where it fled.

And here’s how to catch a demon with its pants down. They first and foremost don’t want to be seen, as they do their dirty work. So if you catch them, don’t let them hide. Keep them under the bright light of scrutiny until they melt away. To do this I considered, ‘what was it that caused me to look away just now’ and coupled with that consideration, I used imagination to consider, ‘what would have to be different inside me in order to not feel the impulse to look away’, and by this method I triangulated the tiny monster and exposed him briefly in my mind’s eye—he was Judgement I have against other people, not against this man I met on the sidewalk in particular, but general judgement I hold towards life, as if to say, “I could do the world better”.

And this realization then exposed Judgement’s comrade, Pride, which then showed me Complaint and Selfishness as well. They were all there, like a haze covering my vision, or like scales over my eyes. They hated to be seen; and I saw how they pulled the strings behind the scenes, distorted my vision of life, and caused me intuitively to feel ashamed due to the knowledge that my vision is distorted because of them, and I’m not as I should be so long as they act with impunity in the shadows within me.

Then I envisioned what I would be if I was without them, and extrapolated that out to imagine what would the world be without them? And this led to a prayer, a request and desire, written as a poem, for just this type of me, and this type of world:

An Economy of Purity

 

I don’t want to be a purveyor of judgement;

a vendor of complaints.

 

Nor do I wish to do business in arguments;

making transactions in rights and wrongs—

 

Or assessing the value of others,

based on their utility for me.

 

Instead.

 

I wish to see into your eyes,

and have you look into mine;

trading in trust and purity,

exchanging understandings—

 

Making our livings

by love.

 

And by this method, and similar ones, we can catch the demons with their pants down, and make the world a better place within us.

 

~FS

 

 

 

 

Twenty-five years ago, perhaps a little longer, I did my last long bicycle ride. Today, I still ride a bit, and commute by bike, but I pretty much figured my significant riding was behind me.  However, recently my wife got a new bike and encouraged me to join her on longer rides. I resisted at first, remembering the saddle-sore associated with rides of several hours or more, and rather preferring long-sitting on the couch reading, to long rides on a hard seat.

But I could see how much she wanted a biking partner, and it did seem like a good way to spend time together, so I rode a few times with her, just for a half-hour or so on some shorter local rides around town. Eventually I bought a new bike of my own, in hopes of giving myself a fighting chance of keeping up with her, and the bicycling bug bit me again—the wind in the hair, the smell of the grass and trees, the closeness to the rhythms and harmonies of the earth. I was hooked.

A few days ago we did our first longer bike ride together. We rode the Centennial Trail north of Seattle, which is 60 miles roundtrip: beginning at the southern trailhead in downtown Snohomish, WA, traveling north through Arlington and on to the northern trailhead at the Nakashima Heritage Barn near the Skagit County line, and then back again.

It was a beautiful, clear and crisp fall day. And it was exciting. Our first real bicycling adventure together and what a perfect trail to initiate ourselves. The trail is generally flat and meanders through small towns, across pastures, over old trestle-bridges spanning several rivers and creeks, and alongside forested areas; it overlooks wide agricultural valleys, and shoulders up against small lakes as it winds its way northward.

Under canopies of big-leaf maples the trail is strewn with fallen leaves the color of gold and pumpkin, which crackle and crunch under our tires. We pass small farms, smell the sweet scent of freshly cut grass, hear the sounds of life as we ride by, and encounter new surprises again and again as we make our way along the trail.

Everyone knows that smells can unlock old memories. Taking up old activities again can also awaken long-forgotten feelings. This bicycle ride was reviving in me an exhilarating freedom, a return to youth. As we coasted under the trees, I felt a strong and vivid remembrance of a younger me—one with a future of endless possibilities, living in a world of simple pleasures, and enjoying the moment, without concern for tomorrow. With very little effort I imagined myself back there again, in that time, in my youth, riding as I had over 25 years before.

We felt so alive, my wife and I, as we pedaled our way along the trail. Which is so great, because as the ride wore on, most of my extremities began to give out, and felt as though they were slowly dying. We were pounding the pedals fairly hard, at least from my perspective, because, glancing over at my wife it didn’t appear that she was working nearly as hard as me; and for most of the ride my left foot had gone numb. I don’t have great circulation so I’m guessing this was the problem.

At some point along the way my right foot also started to tingle, and eventually it also stopped sending signals back to my brain. But I wanted to keep up with her, so as long as I could still pedal I was all for it; besides it was just such a beautiful day, I didn’t want to complain. Although I did. I complained and whined quite a bit and shook my right foot, and then my left foot every so often to prove that I was telling the truth.

In the meantime my right hand also went numb. It seemed every extremity of mine was slowly shutting down, in protest to all the activity. I still had feeling in my left hand and unfortunately in my behind. That seemed to be the one area where all my feeling was concentrated. As we continued to ride, it felt hotter and hotter back there. It was as if a ring of fire had encircled, and was now devouring my rear end.

But what a beautiful day. And the trail is one of the most beautiful you could hope for, with such varied and picturesque scenery. Traveling this way, by bicycle, one gets to experience the sights, the sounds, the smells, all of the senses in a full and complete way, uninsulated from one’s surroundings, with nothing to come between you and your environment. And the pace of travel by bicycle is delightful and relaxing, offering opportunities for enriching experiences with other bicyclists, walkers on the trail, dogs and other creatures, children and townsfolk.

There is something about bicycling that breaks down walls, piques interest, and makes people happy. Some cyclists take things very seriously and look extremely determined but I suspect even those, if you could catch them and talk with them for a moment, you’d find a fun-loving kid underneath all that riding gear and equipment.

Getting outside and experiencing life in this way is a genuine breath of fresh air and is as easy as riding a bike.

~FS

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2—New Beginnings

Spring is a time of new beginnings. We have all felt the excitement and joy of anticipation for warmer weather and longer days coming soon. For Fritz and Rocco it was also a time of growth and discovery.

Rocco had found his voice much earlier than Fritz. In fact, for months, perhaps longer, Fritz never made a sound. He watched his brother with interest when Rocco would bark at some unexpected noise, or growl at the neighbor’s dog, Lucy, who came uninvited into their yard to smell the shrubs, and ‘water’ the lawn. Rocco’s growl was like a little lion’s—a very little, little lion.

And his bark came in tiny bursts, short staccato outbursts, in groups of threes or fours. This was his song: it began with a low murmuring, barely audible, and grew into a full throated growl, and the growl terminated in a crescendo of stabbing barks. He was a maestro, with themes and variations on this pattern, but all of his utterings were signature Rocco. None lasted very long, mere movements, a phrase or a line, but never a symphony. If he were a poet he would utter limericks or haiku, never epics.

Fritz was the silent partner. But one afternoon he found his unexpected voice in a most surprising way. Fritz is a spinner. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a dog that can spin such tight circles, so swiftly as Fritz can, and if you have seen this, you’ve probably become very dizzy as you watched them. But when Fritz plays, he has to spin, he can’t help himself. He hears some kind of music in his head, and when the music plays, he just has to dance. But it isn’t just a dance, it is also a sport, like Judo, or Karate, or most especially like Capoeira, that rare and beautiful blending of martial arts, acrobatics and dance.

Fritz spins, stops, dodges left and quickly right, then spins in the opposite direction, and bounds across the room, leaps onto a chair, spins, turns and leaps off the chair, briefly touches the floor and propels himself up onto the couch, stops, looks left, looks right, and somersaults onto the floor, landing face to face with Rocco. Rocco looks bewildered. What just happened?! Before Rocco can collect his wits enough to begin to growl, Fritz spins again, round and round and round again, in quick succession, and then he stops and…he coos.

Yes, he makes that same fluttery cooing sound mostly associated with pigeons or with doves. Fritz looks around to see where the noise came from, Rocco looks also, then they look at each other for a moment, and Fritz coos again. Rocco steps back, unsure what to do next. Fritz understands now that he is responsible for this new and unfamiliar sound so he does it yet again. And then he spins and stops and coos one last time.

Over time Fritz learned to turn his cooing into more of a hollow howl, and then ultimately into a true dog bark. Even so, when he gets excited and begins his special dancing, he often includes his unique cooing as accompaniment, saving his barks for other things, such as neighborhood dogs, the cat next door, and errant squirrels.

~FS

Not long ago, into a world of warmth and love, two puppies were born. Theirs was a world of discovery and of peace. A place of wild, simple exuberance, and of long, cozy naps. Nestled into the blankets, with their brothers and their sisters all around, they slept, and they dreamt of things unknown to us.

 

Half-brothers, born four days apart, they shared all the hallmarks of their breed: little button noses, soft wavy hair, large wide-set eyes so dark and deep and sparkling, fluffy tails that curved upwards and over their backs when they walked, and proud little chests containing gentle, loving hearts within.

 

Fritz was the younger, with russet brown hair, hazel eyes, and had a love for comfortable pillows. Rocco, though older by just a little, was smaller than his brother. He was black and white, with dark brown eyes, and had a love of writing pens.

 

They began their lives, and happily passed the days, sleeping amongst the pile of warm hair and fluff that was their family and their tribe. Their siblings provided heat and security, while their parents were always nearby, ready to calm a fight, with a kick or a swipe of the paw, or ready with a warm, wet lick to soothe the hurt of a fall.

 

My wife and I first met them on a cold winter day in February. The leaves had long since fallen from the trees and the sky was a cloudy grayish-white. As we entered their home, the rooms were filled with the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking, and of coffee brewing. Of course the dogs weren’t responsible for either of these, they were still only puppies after all, and their minds were filled with other things.

 

Rocco had found a new black pen that someone had dropped on the floor, under the desk in the kitchen the night before, and this was occupying his attention. Not that any of his siblings were interested in his treasure, but nevertheless he protected it with determination and enthusiasm.

 

Barely larger than the pen himself, at a mere eight ounces, he could easily fit entirely into the palm of your hand. But what he lacked in size he made up for with ambition; and he fancied himself to be a ferocious tiger.

 

Fritz was dreaming, and by all appearances he seemed to be in a hurry to get someplace or to find someone. For as he slept, his little body twitched, and his little paws danced as they tapped the pillow, or stretched into the air as he rolled over onto his back. A big huge yawn revealed a little mouth beginning to fill with baby teeth, and a tiny pink tongue which curled up and out and touched his nose.

 

 

 

We came to bring them to a new home, a place of equal warmth and affection to the one they had grown accustomed to, a place that also smelled of chocolate chip cookies (which they would soon learn to desire, but couldn’t have) and of coffee (which they had no use for at all).

 

They left their parents and siblings behind, but this is the nature of things in the world of dogs, and they didn’t miss them, well, perhaps a little, but they had many new things to distract and occupy their attention and they usually forgot from where they had come. Neither did they know where they were going but this also was of no concern. They were comfortably consumed with the moment they were living, the treats they were eating, the squirrels they were chasing, or the adventures they were creating.

~FS

 

 

 

 

Healing…Elusive…what will become of me? I’m no better now than I was on March 28 when she died. In fact, I may be worse off now. I’ve been told it is depression, by several people. How could that be? Nothing happened to me. Death happened to somebody else.

 

But something did happen to me and I can’t reverse it. It seems like it should just be hyperbole, or the stuff of a good poem, or something that tugs at the heart and then we move on.

 

But I don’t move on, and it doesn’t go away either. She died and somehow that is making all the difference in the world. The world is different now. My world has changed so substantially, emotionally and in my thoughts, that it isn’t recognizable to me. I’ve written about this before so I’m not sure why I find it so surprising. In fact as I write this I find it tedious and rather boring. Same old, same old…

 

However, the part of me that takes an interest in observing myself, is shocked and more than a little scared by all of this. It isn’t an experiment, or a clinical trial, as I’m so in the habit of treating my life’s events. This is bigger than me and seems to have swept me away, or is sweeping me, or will sweep, or could sweep…I’m not sure which.

 

I have a wonderful wife. I have fantastic friends. A very good job, with kind and loving co-workers. My dogs bring me great joy and I get lots of exercise. In many ways things are better now than ever. My life has a depth and beauty that I’ve long sought and I’m very grateful for this. It’s a wonderful life…

 

and yet, without her, I feel such emptiness within. I reiterate, I have a wonderful wife, and a wonderful life, and at the same time I am empty…

 

God.

 

Of course, this is the answer that comes to mind and heart. For me, I know this is the answer but I’m not feeling it, or experiencing it, or however you’d like to say it, and right now, this isn’t the answer. It should be the answer? It could be the answer? But it isn’t.

 

My prayers actually are quite good and I have a regular habit of prayer each morning and evening and at certain intervals throughout the day, along with my attempts at praying without ceasing throughout the day which is admittedly spotty but also somewhat consistent. Generally I feel God’s presence and I know His love, except at times of fatigue and weariness in life’s battles.

 

Even with all of this, I still feel empty and alone within my being. And I want to return to how it was before she died. It is a vast emptiness and an acute longing. The only solution that is any good is the only one that can never happen. I’d like her to come back please.

~FS

The Wretched

St Paul says that we are the most to be pitied among all men if our hope in Christ is only for this life, and if there is no victory over death, and no resurrection.

We don’t need Christ in order to enjoy the beauty of this world, nor do we need him in order to explain creation. We don’t even need Christ to enjoy this life, or find purpose and meaning in our lives.

In fact, morality, virtue and ethics are not exclusive to followers of Christ, and this fact is evident to everyone. Good living is not dependent on Christ.

The only thing that can come to us in no other way is a good eternal life; with Jesus alone we are promised victory over death, and an eternal life to anticipate with joy and thankfulness.

But where is our salvation? How can I know this promise is true, that I’m not being duped. We’ve heard the story, the eyewitness accounts to His resurrection, the hundreds of people who staked their reputations and their lives upon this account, even on what they witnessed first-hand with their own eyes.

But that was two thousand years ago. It starts to sound a little like a fairy tale. Is Jesus my imaginary friend? Even if the accounts are true, and it happened just like that, somehow the waiting is demoralizing and frustrating.

We wait upon God’s perfect timing and we trust in Him. We live by faith, and are justified by this. Perfect endurance will have its perfect reward and those who endure to the end will wear the crown—the crown of eternal life.

Meanwhile here I am, waiting in this valley of tears, under the shadow of death. I sit in my room trying to communicate with God, but without the apparatus to do so. I’m a radioman without a radio, an internet surfer without a computer (or smartphone). My prayers, like sonar, bounce off the walls and echo back inside my head.

Why is it so hard?

Well, I’m not ready to see him anyway, most likely. I’m filthy and shameful and need more time. But what do I really do with all this time? I watch television. I earn money and spend it. I eat far more than I need. And I struggle.

Oh wretched man that I am. One moment talking to an empty room inside my soul, the next running in circles trying to get somewhere; anywhere, just not here. What a way to spend the day.

I know I’m not alone