Flying back to the shore
I think that none of us are free bound as we are by promises outliving us all, the grasping at things pulling us in and out of worlds. So writes Kate Buckley in "A Poem of Strong Wishes," which appears in her 2008 book A Wild Region. I have never heard any poet or philosopher state it better. Buckley's poem is about the narrator flying home to Kentucky to care for her grandmother. You may exchange that scenario for one of your choice. The overriding truth is the same: We spend our lives mired in work that we will leave unfinished. The promises will outlive us, and someone will take our place to keep them for a short while longer. Years ago, during a Sunday service at the Self-Realization Fellowship, I heard one of the monks say, "No one is indispensable." Since we are all dispensed with eventually, that realization takes on a form of relief. But, as Buckley says, we are not free. All the rationalization that we can muster about the shortness of life or our tininess in the cosmos cannot erase the significance that we attach to our work. It is our work, after all, and we are the central character in our own life story. Perhaps we're paid for our efforts, and perhaps not. Perhaps they even appear to others as play or hobbies. It doesn't matter; at some point, we all take on responsibilities that we tell ourselves cannot be mishandled. Pilots promise to land passengers safely; firefighters promise to protect buildings; doctors promise to cure the sick. To make it through a lifetime without denting a single plane, letting a single building burn down, or losing a single patient must be some sort of vindication. The promises outlive us, true, but we can at least say that we kept them while we were here. My poem this week in the Journal of Radical Wonder, "The Pool Coach Sings Hallelujah," is about a man who has promises to keep. (Yes, I am thinking of Robert Frost as I write those words.) He is aware not only that they will outlive him, but also that they outlived the person who came before him. He also suspects that that person did a better job. Think back on the pool coach at your own high school; probably, you can think of at least one time when he barked at the students or paced exasperatedly on the deck. Swimming pools have a way of bringing out immaturity in teenagers, and a coach may resort to a martinet level of discipline to maintain his authority. No doubt Mister Rogers could have talked a rowdy freshman team gently into compliance, but he wasn't a pool coach. The lead character in "The Pool Coach Sings Hallelujah" knows the expectations put on him -- his predecessor was taller, and evidently had a deeper voice -- and he even has dreams in which the outlines of a coach walk around the pool deck and commands the team. He is the person now assigned to fill those outlines, and he's not sure if his colors fill the space. It's a tough job for a romantic, but he is one. In the predawn hours -- before he encounters the pregnant sophomore again, before he's reminded of the drive-by a mile away from school -- he fires up his car and goes in search of the sublime. On the car radio, Aretha Franklin and the Sensational Nightingales trill; the constellations glisten above; the buildings and churches loom in silhouette. It adds up to a daily affirmation: Things can be done correctly, and they can look majestic when they are. At our best, we may look majestic, too. Sometimes, we feel that that's our duty; our promises to others can still involve plenty of ego on our part. Pool coaches want to appear formidable to the team, and if the team succeeds, then they may credit that to their powers of influence. The trick is harnessing those powers, and that can lead to anxious dreams. Failure, as the saying goes, is not an option for many of us. If you have a piece of paper handy, grab it and jot down what you are working toward in life right now. In a small sense, each of your projects will likely be completed. In a large sense, none of them ever will be. The other day, my 8th-grade class and I talked about the persistence of to-do lists. We all spend our days checking them off, and the grind can be maddening at times. But what if the students stopped submitting their homework? What if I stopped planning lessons? The moment we began shirking our promises, we would realize how many people we made those promises to: parents, colleagues, administrators, everyone else who contributes to making St. Cyril of Jerusalem School a stable and functioning community. The school stands because we work to make it stand. We will pass the baton one day, but St. Cyril will loom without us. Before dawn, when the stars twinkle over the roof of the church, it might even fill a passerby with wonder.
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This is the blog of Michael Miller, a longtime journalist, poet, publisher and teacher. Check here for musings, observations, commentary and assorted bits of gratitude. Archives
July 2023
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