An intercontinental prayer.

If you see where this post is leading at any time - like now for example - feel free to turn away. It's not fun stuff, and I can make no guarantees that any kind of redemption or epiphany will ever materialize. If you do find it there, such states of understanding, compassion, freedom, or whatever, will be, as always, entirely up to you. You, my precious reader.

I stopped by the Giant grocery store recently. The name of this food conglomerate used to rub me the wrong way (still does a bit, but I'm older and wiser now, right?). And while I sometimes will shop at the Bethesda Food Coop, or Whole Foods, the bulk of my grocery dollar goes to the big guy. It's close, it's cheaper, the produce selection is better than at Whole Foods, and they have a growing variety of organic choices. Okay, commercial over, where was I? Yes, I was at Giant and needed to use the men's room, so I pushed my shopping cart, walker style, in that direction. As I approached the elevator there were two employees in my way, with some sort of stocking cart. I stopped behind them.

Beyond them, a man emerged from the elevator, pushing a walker - the triangular sort, which rolls - in our direction. (You probably don't know what that means. By comparison, the walker I sometimes use is rectangular, and has a seat, with four wheels. The triangle has room for some cargo, but no seat, and just three wheels.) He had a blue down jacket on, kind of wavy dark gray hair, a beard, and - do my eyes deceive me - No pants? One of the employees exchanged some words with him out of my earshot. 'Looking for the hosiery aisle, sir?' Or maybe, 'some kinda cold front blowing through, eh?' (Indeed it was very cold outside.) I pushed my cart past, and turned around to confirm my first glimpse. Not just bare legs, there was a brown striation, a few inches wide, running down along the inside of his right leg. My vision wasn't all that clear at the distance of maybe ten paces - I'm rather nearsighted, but normally only wear glasses to drive - so I had no idea what the stain was. Maybe just a naturally occurring pigmentation? Smelling nothing untoward, I pressed the elevator button, and went down.

No off-odor that is, until I entered the bathroom. Let me pause this narrative a moment. How much can you take? If you were in the Peace Corps, you can probably take all I've got to say. In Nepal, the state of our respective gastrointestinal 'issues' (a term both figurative and literal) were topics du jour - what with worms, ghiardia, ameobic dysentary. These were just some of the endemic afflictions we had to face. However, that was 25 years ago. Maybe even the RPCV's among you now might prefer to take a break. If so, know that I managed to survive, and everybody is happy! But some of you intrepid souls might be willing to step further into the miasma with me, your noses pinched.

As my urge was secondary in nature (do the math), I glanced in the HC accessible stall: there the stench was stronger. Looked into the other stall, there was a spray bottle of some kind of cleaner next to the toilet. So, I decided maybe I can hold it after all. Secondary pressures tending to be less urgent than the primary kind. (Just in case anybody hasn't caught up with the math yet.) As I headed for the door, a couple of Giant employees entered, and told me that the smaller stall was clean, no worries.

Okay, time out, I have to end the story here. Of course there was more - including some graphic details I'm certain would compromise your delicate hygienic sensibilities and would leave too long a memory trail. And much heroic cleaning efforts by the employees while I sat in the neighboring stall. Listening to an occasional $#!* or, &@^^, what the #^!&?

But in the end, I was back upstairs shopping, hands thoroughly washed, and focussed once again on the front end of the GI tract. While checking out, my 'friend' Daya mentioned to the cashier something about the fellow with no pants. Daya is a Sinhalese man from Sri Lanka, with warm smiling eyes. We've exchanged pleasantries for many months. He sometimes boxes/bags, but mostly collects carts, and helps customers take their groceries to their cars. I think he practiced accounting or something back home. "Yes, cold weather for short shorts," I agreed.

I hope the man got home, showered and took a warm bubble bath. Picturing him, I felt the urge to help him off with his jacket, turn on the shower, and draw him a bath. Because here's the thing: there but for the grace of God go I. I've changed easily over 10,000 cloth diapers when my kids were babies, and many adult diapers and 'Depends' (a kind of pull-up) for my mother and spouse in their final months, days. And, in fact, incontinence is not an infrequent symptom of MS. Bladder urgency being the more common - and even I have dealt with that from time to time. Which is clearly TMI, so I'll say no more about that.

When I got home, the phone rang. I had left my wallet at the pharmacy counter. With some significant cash in it, as I had just been to the ATM. This sort of 'incontinence' - that is, forgetting and leaving something behind - may be more common, at least it is with me.

Each night, as part of my MS prayer, I repeat the words 'may loving-kindness prevail when the incontinental divide is bridged.' (In case you need it, let me 'draw you a diagram': I mean the divide, of course, between those able to always hold except when it is time to let go, and those who are not.)

Amen.

one-two-zero-two-zero-one-one

May your new year be rich and textured, with moments of peace and joy; and with the freedom to experience the sad or difficult times without undue aversion or suffering. That these instead can flow through you like ever changing weather patterns.

Resolution #1:

Learn 'Blackbird' – by the Beatles – on the guitar, to the point of fluency. And not just the chords. A guitar-playing Peace Corps friend showed me how to play from 'tabs.' These are a sort of musical notation for the guitar player, like me, who can’t really read music.

Resolution #2:

Learn Eva Cassidy's version of ‘Over the Rainbow' to the point that my fiancée's beautiful soprano will be accompanied, if not by an equally talented musician, at least by one who will not embarrass himself.

Resolution #3:

What the? Yes, you read that right, I am engaged to a lovely woman, Dwan Reece. And

we plan to have a tiny wedding service with just our teenaged children this summer. Her daughter Maya is 15. Exact date is as yet to be determined. Will let you know when it happens.

Some other news: Eli is a senior in high school. His grades haven't ever panned out, so he will be going to the nearby community college. Which may sound negative – but he is actually quite happy to be going to Montgomery College, and I'm sure that the school is a fine institution in its own right. He has yet to decide on a field of study. And if he does well for two years there, he will be eligible to transfer to the University of Maryland, or another state college. He plans to share an apartment near the campus with two friends also attending MC.

Spencer is a sophomore at the Canterbury School up in Connecticut. He continues to love dorm life, and sports, but is finding the academics more challenging this year. Send him your thoughts and prayers.

Miller is continuing to 'enjoy' Sidwell. The quotation marks indicate that every morning (almost) he tries to make a deal to get out of going to school – just this one day dad, please… But nearly every afternoon when I ask how his day was, he says 'good.' (Even today when he came home with a nearly broken toe from wrestling.) I think the point is, he's not a morning person. This year he has been to at least a half dozen Mitzvahs so far (either Bar or Bat), and looks quite handsome in a blazer, tie, slacks, and yarmulke.

Oh, and I've been thinking about going back to school - social work of some kind, or psychology. I am interested at this point in both clinical and research directions. Otherwise, I continue with my men’s group, meditation groups, and writers’ group, though the grief that my writing has focused on seems to be losing steam. Which is a good thing, the 'work' having been helpful.

The boys and I made it to Nepal this year, a pilgrimage long in coming. (If you are interested in more travelogue about this trip, you can read earlier posts in this blog, just scroll down to ‘The night bus from hell’ and read chronologically up. Trust me, the trip gets better…).

Peace and love, Peter and the boys

Now for some pictures:

Trip to Nepal

At my niece Emily’s wedding in July. (Note Miller’s studied ‘secret service’ look.)

Dwan and I at our engagement dinner.

Coda: It has been said that everlasting friends can go long periods of time without speaking and never question the friendship. These types of friends pick up like they just spoke yesterday, regardless of how long it has been or how far away they live, and they don't hold grudges. They understand that life is busy, but you will always love them.

Volunteer

I made it to the Wendt center a few weeks ago for a training on candlelight vigils, something the center will sponsor if requested. It was a very cold night, and it being rush hour, I took the metro. The center was supposed to be a half block from the Fort Totten metro stop in northeast, an area I'd never been to. I didn't know which way to turn, so I hailed a cab. The cab driver got lost looking for the place, and said that I didn't have to pay for the ride. We had to call, and get directions, and indeed, it actually turned out to be just a half block from the station. Riding shotgun was the cabbie's girlfriend. We had a nice conversation during the 10 minute trip. Turns out the cabbie was widowed 15 years before. Of course I paid for the ride. Take a breath, step into the cold.

One of the speakers, Kecia, a middle aged woman with straightened black hair, while handing out written instructions, noted that at least two volunteers would need to be present at a vigil, and that the police would need to be notified. She also handed out lists of precincts and their phone numbers. 'The crowds can number in the hundreds,' she tells us. Her plum red false fingernails extended a good inch past the end of her finger tips. Holding up a short white candle, maybe 1/2 inch diameter, she said, 'the center provides fifty candles, candle holders, and programs. You might want to call the family to suggest they bring more, if they expect a larger crowd.' She wore dozens of silver bangles on each arm, and dabbed with a tissue at the perspiration on her heavily made up face. She'd said in her introductory comments that public speaking makes her uncomfortable. Ten of us sat around three office style tables, set side by side in a square.

'Depending on who is being memorialized at the vigil - somebody involved with criminal activity perhaps, or a controversial politician - there may be trouble. Before getting started, be sure to introduce yourself to the police. If things should get tense, you may leave. Be sure that at least two volunteers remain. If you all decide to leave, be sure to tell the immediate family members, give them any remaining candles - and candle holders - [these are small round paper cutouts with perforated holes in the center] and tell the police.' She dabs at some more perspiration. 'In the eight years I have been with the Wendt center, only one vigil has gotten out of hand.'

I take off my jacket, sit back in my chair. I had no idea that vigils could turn ugly like this. But this is D.C. after all. We are told that the Center is asked to sponsor maybe a dozen vigils per year. I ask whether it would be okay to use my walker if I were to help at a vigil. I had a hard time imagining passing out candles, holders, programs, verbal condolences, etc. while walking with my cane. Oh, and the p.a. system consisted of a hand-held megaphone. Maybe three of me with canes could manage it. I am assured the walker would be fine. We are thanked, some leave while some others stand around afterwards chatting (or in my case waiting for the proffered ride back to the metro.) We step into the parking lot, and the bracing cold.

Pretty long wait for the next train. Fortunately I had worn our heaviest jacket. I say 'ours' as the boys and I trade off, Miller now rapidly approaching six feet tall. So I get on the train, and exit at Friendship Heights, our station, but come up the wrong exit, which lies a good half mile or more from home. It was a lovely walk, though quite cold. I traded off my bare hand using the cane with the pocketed one every fifty paces. I stopped by Chipotle to get a burrito and two quesadillas for the boys on the way.

I got an email a few days ago from Kecia asking for volunteers for a vigil downtown to be held tonight. The deceased was a homicide victim. I will go unless the predicted snowfall cancels the event.

p.s. i drove for over two hours in the snow and sleet, but never found the place. maybe time for a gps. or make sure to carpool next time.