Saturday, September 18, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Roadtrip to Now
The miles fly by. I pass an eighteen wheeler out of Quebec. From my car radio comes the music of my youth - Led Zeppelin, Beatles, Kinks. The miles fly by. I'm headed to Ohio to spend time with my departed wife's family. She died ten months ago.
In Syracuse, I get gas. In Buffalo, I pay a toll. In Erie, I stop for a meal. Back on the road. I'm into the rhythm of the journey. The music drives me as much as the gas - Stones, Supremes, James Brown.
Life is not static. I intend to tell them about the new woman in my life and how deep and serious our relationship is. This roadtrip flows and changes just as our lives do. ... When she died, we spent our last moments together with eyes locked in an intense gaze. There was no more to say, just a loving gaze to share as she sliped out of her body and into eternity. In seconds a life can change forever.
Suddenly I see fragments of a blown out tire in the road ahead of me. I swerve past it. Two seconds later I see smoke from the car whose tire had blown. A second later I see the car in front of me has stopped to stare or to help. Time has slowed and seconds have become lifetimes.
I'm traveling at seventy five miles per hour. If I don't react immediatly I will plow into the back of that car. I will die or be maimed along with the other driver. In the next second I swerve into the right hand lane. In reaction to my high speed maneuver, my car fish-tails, wildly swerving left and right. In the next second I pass that stopped car. I have control of my vehicle but do I control the length of my life? Our time is not our own.
When she died what needed to be said had been said. But life keeps flowing. If my life had ended in that auto incident so much would have been left unsaid with so many others. Now is the only time we actually have. The past is a blurred memory and the future is yet to be. We must use the present wisely, it is all we have. Now is the time to say what needs to be said.
In Syracuse, I get gas. In Buffalo, I pay a toll. In Erie, I stop for a meal. Back on the road. I'm into the rhythm of the journey. The music drives me as much as the gas - Stones, Supremes, James Brown.
Life is not static. I intend to tell them about the new woman in my life and how deep and serious our relationship is. This roadtrip flows and changes just as our lives do. ... When she died, we spent our last moments together with eyes locked in an intense gaze. There was no more to say, just a loving gaze to share as she sliped out of her body and into eternity. In seconds a life can change forever.
Suddenly I see fragments of a blown out tire in the road ahead of me. I swerve past it. Two seconds later I see smoke from the car whose tire had blown. A second later I see the car in front of me has stopped to stare or to help. Time has slowed and seconds have become lifetimes.
I'm traveling at seventy five miles per hour. If I don't react immediatly I will plow into the back of that car. I will die or be maimed along with the other driver. In the next second I swerve into the right hand lane. In reaction to my high speed maneuver, my car fish-tails, wildly swerving left and right. In the next second I pass that stopped car. I have control of my vehicle but do I control the length of my life? Our time is not our own.
When she died what needed to be said had been said. But life keeps flowing. If my life had ended in that auto incident so much would have been left unsaid with so many others. Now is the only time we actually have. The past is a blurred memory and the future is yet to be. We must use the present wisely, it is all we have. Now is the time to say what needs to be said.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Michael Writes a Letter from Laz
Dr. Traian Strambu in Ireland, Photo by Roger Wyatt
The house on the hill in Laz, Romania, a small village in Transylvania, was the home of Dr. Traian Strambu’s grandfather. Traian is the heart and soul of the Love, Loss, and Forgiveness Project in Romania. He first invited me here after he participated in a workshop I gave in Ireland. A psychiatrist by trade, he is a warm and enthusiastic man, as passionate about LLFP as I am, so it was easy to become friends.
The three generations of participants in this workshop ranged from a fourteen year old girl, who came with her mother, two other teenagers, and eight others. Everyone was silent as the beginning of the workshop—awed and a bit fearful about what was to come. They sat pensively waiting for permission to speak. The Talking Stick gave them that permission. This initial Silence seemed a shadow from the particularly dangerous and malignant brand of communism that bred fear and distrust throughout the country and was made more poignant by the dark mantel of guilt and secrecy brought on and practiced by the church.
I could easily feel the warmth of these beautiful people, but that warmth at first seemed to be hidden from themselves, and each other. However, when given “permission” to talk, they opened right up-- for they were literally dying to talk. It was so moving to witness their struggle to find the words necessary to give voice to their suffering-- and when they dared to speak, they cried fountains of tears that had been unshed for years.
We also laughed a lot, and had an evening of fun-- for Romanians love to sing and dance and enjoy life, however difficult.
Poverty is the rule here, and most of the people attending could not afford this, or any other workshop. I envision a time when the Love, Loss, and Forgiveness Project community will be vital enough to help make available the practices of LLF to these brothers and sisters in Romania and other less fortunate places around the world.
I wish you all could have met these beautiful people, because you would have loved them as I do. Perhaps someday you will have that opportunity, as we expand our LLFP Internet programs and open new channels for communication with one another.
With love, Michael.
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