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“
I thought of him today”, he says, with a
surprised twinkle in his eyes, “when I heard
Jingle Bell Rock on the radio.”
Christmas ’06 is one week away and my twenty-four
year old son is sitting along side my hospital
bed. The early evening darkness wraps the tree
line across the parking lot in a soft winter grey
turning the window into a painting and frames a
face I love. It has been more than two years since
we were together. Inexplicable events and different
paths, robbed us of precious face-to-face encounters.
But now he is here: cautious, loving, eager! He
heard I was hospitalized. Phoned immediately. Inquired
about my health. I said I would live beyond pneumonia.
He said he would come right away. An hour and a
half later, he is here. The best of medicines!
He remembers his grandfather, the one who relished
having the grandchildren visit for the Sunday-after-Christmas
party. He can still see the one who hands out gifts
from Santa, at least that is what the tags reads,
the same one who plays Christmas music on the old
Emerson portable record player one vinyl at a time.
To be sure, he plays Jingle Bell Rock, ‘ad
nauseam’. I remember how the older children
anticipated that tune on the long drive to Pepere and Memere house in Maine. They made fun of his
choice of music. They would even joke that he might
dare to sneak in his all-time favorite, The
Yellow Rose of Texas. That song had floated out of the
open den window over and over again during the
many summer family gatherings for the annual back
yard clam bake. The song always occasioned good
natured teasing and raucous laughter.
How lasting the impressions of earlier years!
How little did I suspect that twenty years later
an accomplished young man would taste of an earlier
joy carried in a time capsule for future feasting!
We noticed with surprise that our educational
paths were so similar, both philosophy majors as
undergraduates, both drawn to metaphysics, both
interested in epistemology, both energized by the
study of the philosophy of religion and of ethics
as matters of vital concern. I had recently read
early Christian Gnostic literature and came to
the conclusion that the history of philosophy could
offer guidance for today’s world? And tonight,
here in a small rural community hospital in northern
New England, I hear concurrent views from a twenty-four
year old man who is my son?
I recall the pause. It was as if we had to
let our connection penetrate to the core. Still
awake
at two AM, eyes shut, I see this tall, lean, handsome,
bright, daring and soulful man,
the same son, minus his childhood flaming red hair
and freckles, who, at the age of four, stood at
the slider’s edge looking at me on the deck
and dazzling me to utter: “You were born
a philosopher.” And when, at the age of eight,
an arctic blast ruined a similar warm summer day,
he spoke his limbic fear in eloquent neo-cortical
language from this very same spot. I had just told
him that his mother and I were divorcing.
Here we are, sixteen years later.
Joy, like a drop of bright food coloring in a
crystal clear glass of water, changes every molecule
in receptive bodies. We both carry our scars. I
pray that his wounds drained before closing. He
will come to the old farm house the day after Christmas.
We will exchange gifts in person after more than
a decade. I let myself sponge the gift of joy that
he brings to me. I ask my body to make my joy evident
to him, and to send him, in return, unceasing gladness.
I do not want to sleep tonight. I want this moment
to linger through the eleven to seven shift. I
do not feel the sheets, nor hear, nor feel any
of the medical apparatus hovering over me. I am,
I think, in bliss, floating in a familiar sea of
sadness.
How evident it appears to us, we say, that more
than anything else, it is philosophy that mightily
influences human history. The evidence abounds.
Scan the globe. Iraq, Darfur, Lebanon! Just to
name a few. And what about here at home? Kent State,
Birmingham, Wounded Knee. Distant world history
nauseates with accounts of mindless slaughter.
Genocides seem to be the markers of our species.
We know these lists would dwarf the New York City
phonebook. We stop. We tease each other to shake
off the weight of associated guilt and the awareness
that the same blind cruelty lurks within us and
begs for compassion.
Imagine, we say in agreement,
if decisions were made after consultations with
Herodotus, Pythagoras, Plato, Socrates and all
those in the non-literalist traditions. Just imagine
what the authentic Jesus would say, the one who
was not hijacked by those with an agenda. We think
of the Emperor and murderer Constantine arm twisting
and threatening Bishops with exile to get his way.
Ah, just imagine, we smile. Imagine a world with
no more wars fueled by ‘pretend’ religions;
with leaders who consult their unique Self and
the Self of ordinary people. Is not the Self the
font of wisdom wherein all the lovers of wisdom
of old and of present time link in peace and joy?
We make plans to visit again soon, to spend an
overnight together, and to explore and enjoy how
uniqueness binds.
The fever breaks. Last evening’s muted
tree tops shimmer in the dawn.
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