NOW AND THEN

My son has a used book fetish. It has led to weekly trips in search of dingy imploding  book stores, run by older hippyish folks, who serve coffee dark as tar, and never have cream. He enjoys these places. I get anxious, frightened the ceiling will soon collapse.

Recently, he wanted to trek to Evanston, Illinois, a posh Chicago suburb, and home to exclusive Northwestern University. I had not been there in some forty years, having spent an interim month while still a student at St. Olaf College.

It was an independent study, but my true purpose in being in Evanston was to be near my hometown, Racine, Wisconsin, and to visit with a high school friend who attended Northwestern. Sadly, for the life of me, I do not recall what the hell I was supposed to be studying. Oh well, that sure was independent.

While Justin browsed a gothic looking used book store on a side street, I drove to a coffee shop downtown. I got myself a newspaper and a bold roast coffee, heavy on the cream, and took a seat by the window. I spent two hours perusing the paper, and watching the students rush and saunter on by.

I then had a very clear recollection.

While on my interim independent study in 1970, I had frequented just such a local coffee house. I had brought poetry with me. (Maybe I was studying poetry.) I wore jeans and a purple dashiki and my hair was a white boy afro. I was a vision of political correctness, and wildly suited to the era.

My recollection was of my attitude. My perspective. I so vividly recalled how confident I felt sitting there in Evanston. How certain I was of my significance. No real doubts. Few genuine questions.  The size of the impact I would make on the world, being my only casual concern.

I had charisma emanating from every pore, and felt centered in my calling to lead. Though I had no idea where I was going, I was worthy of being followed. I felt sweetly smug. I had the world by the tail. I was on my way. I was here among the best and brightest, and my light was blinding.  So bright, the wise would be sure to trail after my glow.

That was then.

Now. I am sixty five. My stomach is sour from drinking too much coffee, but I am inhaling cup number six of the morning. I am reading a New York Times, which scares the hell out of me again. The world is so absurdly out of control. We truly must be nuts. Crazy.

A Florida senator and potential presidential nominee states that we had nothing to do with global warming. There is another editorial warning of the growing impact of the gap between rich and poor, and the violence and mayhem it foreshadows. Kansas has voted to eliminate all local gun regulations. A letter to the editor documents how many gun deaths have taken place in America, and why foreign governments are encouraging their citizens not to travel to our Wild West big cities. Heroin is officially an epidemic.

There is a darling article on about Manhattan pre-schoolers mastering their computers. No questions asked about the impact on their soul or psyche. Technology runs rampant in our culture. It governs our lives. Our youth are addicted to its powers. There is no monitoring or guidance offered. The morality of the enterprise is given a free pass. This is progress. To what, well, we haven’t a clue.

I sit and consider the last year’s events. My wife died in October. She was ravaged by a patchwork quilt of illnesses. Her final months were brutal, and agonizing to observe. I have enrolled in Medicare, and bought the additional insurance I have been told will save me from financial ruin. I have seen doctors to address my diabetes, acid reflux, and anxiety.

I have retired, but am still productive. I write. I paint. I read a ton. I think all the time. I worry even more. I feel secretly quite fragile. I question my worth. As a father, minister, friend, I often feel like the string quartet on the Titanic. I am here to provide entertainment while the ship sinks. It feels so lousy. Like a big whopper of a lie.

I watch the students hustle on by. The only difference I observe is the ear phones and cell phones and computers. In the coffee house where I sit, I am the only soul not on a computer. Somehow, this feels oddly like my own little bit of luck. These students are brimming with confidence ; ready to grab their piece of the pie ; to make a name for themselves ; to be winners ; and, not to be too grim about it, to write checks for the losers.

Am I an old fart cynic? Yep. I must admit it. My confidence is shaky, and my health fragile. My desire to create is still robust, but my belief in its worth, well, that is quite minimal. My humility is at an all-time high. I walk daily and humbly with my God.

I sip my coffee, and I pay attention. I watch. I listen. I feel deeply. I absorb the scene. I have become more spiritual. I notice now. I am convinced that is all there is to spirituality – taking notice.

Now and then. What a difference. One day you believe you will conquer the world, and the next, you just hope you can make someone’s day. I hate to say it, but I do wish I had known then what I know now. To be honest, I probably did know it, but even back then, it just wasn’t enough.

Our whole culture is built upon convincing us we are not enough. We don’t own enough. We haven’t accomplished enough. We don’t have enough in the bank. We are not sexy or smart or thin enough. Most of all, we are never young enough. We seek to escape death with a passion we fail to offer our living of these days.

In 1970, I wondered how often my life would collide with these beautiful people, and how we would together create so much of such great meaning and purpose. We – the movers and the shakers.

In 2014, I wondered if I would ever see Evanston again, and shook my head in the certainty that all these bold beautiful faces would vanish as quickly as a morning mist. Me – the solitary soul with a sour stomach and a coffee addiction.