The New Year Comes

The New Year Comes

“For last year's words belong to last year's language

And next year's words await another voice.”

― T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

            The new year is almost here.  I’m ready for a change, to go with the new calendar on the wall.  Soon, there will be a new month, a new year, and the rest of winter.   But, I’ve been adrift, not quite able to put words to this feeling, this restlessness for looking at life in a new way, with new words.

            A new friend and I meet, sipping coffee milkshakes, as he tells me of his life and his hopes for the future.  He is full of optimism, and hope for a new beginning.  His life is changing, much for the better, as he distances himself from chaos and anger, to curiosity and new vocabulary. 

            He thinks I’m wise, and I can teach him much.  Truth be known, he is my teacher, my spiritual guru today. Like him, I need to free myself from old patterns, old demons, and look ahead. I need a new vocabulary, and fresh eyes to see the world unfolding before me. 

            “I want to explore so much,” my friend says. 

            I could easily define him as a failure, a cast off, for something he did several years ago.  His family has rejected him, and society has sent him to prison.

            He’s a prisoner, I thought, but really, he’s free now. He’s been released, and can now truly live his life.  One person’s idea of prison is another’s university of life. 

            A paradox. Yet, he feels free now, for the first time, to be who he wants to be, to stretch himself and move ahead in his life.  For the first time, he is with people his own age, making friends, going to school, and learning to write. He’s waking up every morning in a place where he is not beaten, screamed at, or kept away from the world. He’s escaped from the darkness of his family’s chamber of horrors, and has come into the light, joining the world as a real person. 

            He searches for words to express himself, and the words for his waves of emotion, all new to him.  This coming year is a new beginning for him, a gift to be opened and cherished, with words and emotions he has never known before. 

            We discover we are both gardeners, in every nuance of the word. Like me, he’s browsing the seed catalogs, and placing his order, dreaming of the coming springtime, where one plants and brings forth new life. He yearns to nurture the garden of his own soul.

            “Who am I?” he asks. 

            “Anything you want to be,” I reply.  “You can choose now.  The world is yours to explore.”

            And, not just for him, I realize.  It is my choice, too.  I, too, am in this world, and I also can make those choices and have those opportunities. We are both gardeners and poets, thinking of spring. 

            And we are both prisoners, of our thoughts, our old perceptions of the world and how we fit into the mold of what others expect of us, how they think we should act and think. 

            Like my buddy, I too can be free, and move on towards the coming newness and freedom of the new year, and be who I really want to be. 

12/28/2015

Neal Lemery

Some Thoughts on Independence Day

Two hundred and thirty seven years ago, a group of educated, politically popular entrepreneurs and leaders got together and declared war against their country, and told their King they were starting their own nation.  They endorsed a revolution against the world's largest political power.  

They listed their grievances against their government, telling their sovereign it had abused its power, had deprived its citizens of liberty, and acted immorally.  Their extensive list is familiar to us, the topics and grievances familiar to what we hear today in Syria, Egypt, China, Turkey, and closer to home.

These rebels, speaking for their communities and neighbors,  declared they were done with trying to reform their nation.  Their grievances were so extensive, and the inability of the government to listen and respond, and to reform,  had become obvious and without remedy.  

So, they denounced their government, and declared their independence.  They rebelled.  

This was treason of the highest order.  If caught, they would be hanged, and all their property would be confiscated, their families impoverished, and likely imprisoned.  And the war would risk devastating their cities, their farms, everything they had worked for.

No one had ever declared independence from Great Britain before, and succeeded.  "The King can do no wrong" was the major theme of politics and governance.  Indeed, the King's reign was blessed by All Mighty God, His Majesty exercising unlimited, even divine power.  Laws and taxes were enacted by a parliament comprised of noblemen and wealthy businessmen, who were making huge profits from the lucrative trading laws and colonial economy of the British Empire.  American colonists had no voice.  And, they had discovered they had few rights.  

The Empire had the world's largest navy, and the world's largest army.  And, Britain was the world's largest economy.  The American colonies depended on British trade to sell all of their goods, and to buy the supplies and goods they needed.  Trying to make their way in a world without the umbrella of the British economy was a dangerous road.  They were risking everything they had for their values.

Their rebellion wasn't popular with everyone.  Many people supported the Crown,  and the rebellion dragged on for seven terrible, bloody years.  Cities were beseiged, New York City was burned, trade was blockaded.  People starved, and thousands died of disease and the ravages of war.  The British were ruthless and brutal, as they brought large armies to track down the rebels, and end the rebellion.  

Yet, the flame of wanting liberty and human dignity, and self governance eventually prevailed.  Sheer determination and courage won the day, and eventually Britain conceded American independence.

That new nation was not perfect, and faced enormous obstacles.  Slavery, disparity of wealth, onerous taxation, the needs of justice, and a fragmented and inexperienced government burdened the young nation.  And, those issues and the wide range of political thought continue to be part of our national conversation today.  

Yet, there was hope.  There was a shared belief that whatever we do as a nation, we will act with respect to personal opinions,  we will engage in serious debate, and we will  be willing to share our collective burdens.  We will make our decisions, and then we will move ahead, together, as a community.  

Our Founding Fathers started a revolution.  They risked everything, in order to be able to live in a community where there is freedom of speech, due process of law, and respect for the opinions and rights of others.  

Are we that committed to those ideals today?  Are we willing to be the revolutionaries when we are called upon?  

Are we willing to sign our own Declaration of Independence in bold strokes, telling the King that he is wrong, and we will be free, and that we are willing to die for that?  Or, have we even given that much thought, as we head out for a Fourth of July picnic, or to watch the fireworks at the park?  

The words of the Declaration of Independence resound today within our national fabric.  Those words have inspired people throughout the world to believe in themselves, and to take charge of their lives, to cherish life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  

Today, our challenge is to remember that revolution, and to continue to rekindle those flames of liberty and freedom, and the willingness to put all that we have on the line for the betterment of our community and freedom for all.  

         ---Neal Lemery, July 3, 2013

Freedom Day

                      Freedom Day

                           By Neal Lemery

I call it Freedom Day.  One of my friends, who experienced it from the prisoner-getting-out viewpoint calls it the best day, but the hardest day of his life.

After six or seven years, being locked up since you were sixteen, you are free.  There's so much going on in your head, you can't even cry.  Oh, we shout, and I honk the horn as we drive away, but the young men fall quiet, and just look at the road ahead, the countryside, as we drive away.

Part of me wants the Mormon Tabernacle Choir here, singing the Hallelujah Chorus, as we march out to a parade of confetti and balloons.  But, usually, it is just a staff member or two, and a cartful of their worldly possessions, their parole papers clutched in their sweaty hands, their faces stony with a mixture of fear, joy, and anticipation.  

Everything they've known for the last seven years is back there, behind the fence, behind the locked door.  The trunk has a duffle bag, a day pack, and a few garbage sacks of all they have in this world.  

They even dawdle a bit, hugging buddies goodbye, everyone a bit teary, even though they are getting out, they are free now.  

They slip into the front seat, put on their seatbelt.  It's their first ride in a vehicle in seven years without wearing a jumpsuit, their hands cuffed, and chained to their ankles.  There's a deep silence now, as that bit of their new reality sets in.  No handcuffs.  Just going for a ride down the road.  Just like the rest of the world.  

Two of the guys I've driven away from their life behind bars have clutched their Bibles, hands sweaty as we turn onto the road, and head away.  One guy grabs the wood carving he's making, a Raven mask, symbol of his tribe, his heritage, and the long, courageous road he's already traveled in his young life.

I took a couple of them to the beach, a place they've been close to for a third of their lives, but have never walked on, never felt the bit of spray from the waves, or smelled the salty, fresh air in their lungs.  They both hesitated, as we got out of the car, the early morning salt air cold against their faces. 

"Aren't you coming?" they each asked.  

No.  This is your time.  Go.  Walk. Run.  Talk to God.  Yell.  Put your feet in the water, and feel it.  Experience it.  Be the wild boy you need to be. This is your day, this is your time.

You haven't been alone for all these years, except in your mind, on your bunk in a dorm of twenty five, late at night.  It is time to walk your beach, to be free, to be on your own. If anyone deserves to talk on their own, on the beach at dawn, it is you, my fledgling eagle.

Go fly a bit.  Stretch those wings.      

For two men, on their Freedom Day, they both looked back, to make sure I was still there, and then they moved forward, purposefully, manfully heading to the water.   The waves crashed, the breeze freshened a bit, and the gulls mewed, as these brave young men gaze out to sea, so many thoughts racing through their minds. I stood there, in silent witness, a tear of joy, of exultation running down my cheek.

I say a silent prayer, a prayer of thanksgiving, and guardianship, wanting them to be protected, wanting them to blossom into strong, healthy men, men who embrace and cherish freedom and living a good, loving life. May this be their last day ever in prison.  

Yes, I would wait for them, I would stand guard for them, these brave young men, taking flight, testing their wings and singing their songs, beginning a new life.

For one man, we celebrate Freedom Day and his birthday with a big breakfast. And candles, cake, and ice cream for dessert, on our best china, toasting to his freedom with sparkling cider and crystal goblets.  It's his second birthday cake in seven years, and the first time he's had candles on a cake since he was ten.  I broke out my mother's silver, and cloth napkins.  Time for a little spoiling, I think.  After all, it is Freedom Day.  

"More, please," our young Pippen asks, and I pass him the platter of his special ordered sausage, bacon and biscuits.  He fills his plate, mentioning that the knife and fork in his hand are metal.  He's only used plastic for six years.

"I guess I'll have to get used to this," he chuckles.  

We sing "Happy Birthday extra sweetly for this man-child today, our hearts finally feeling what this day means.  He blows out the candles, making a wish, as a tear slides down his face.

"Mom would never let us have cake for breakfast," he says.  "But, I guess we can break the rules today."

Oh, yeah.  We laugh when he asks for seconds on dessert.  

One man comes to my house to shower, after his run on the beach.  He's in the bathroom quite a while, and comes out wondering what to do with his towel.  He giggles a bit.

"First time I've had a shower all by myself in a bathroom in seven years.  I had to just enjoy it."

The rest of those  Freedom Days become whirls of activities, of challenges, and adventures.  We drive through the forest, far away from walls, and inmate counts, and lining up for a meal, or to go to a class, or any of the other institutional rituals in his day.  We stop when we need to pee, or have a meal, or when we spot a herd of elk beside the road.

The closer we get to their new home, and their new challenges, their new life, the meaning of it all hits hard.  They fall silent, their whirling minds even reaching me, tensing me up with their anxiety.

I've traveled these roads a lot, but on those Freedom Days, I, too, am feeling the freedom, sensing the beauty and peace of the forest, and fields, and little towns, the sun bright in a blue sky, unmarked by a fence, or a wall, or the numbing tedium of prison life.    The routine of this trip isn't ordinary today, and I start to appreciate the simple things, the ability to make some choices.  Near the end of the trip, I take another road, just because I can.  

We hit the variety store, picking up some necessities, getting a cell phone, one of today's essentials.  And, the mayhem, the crowds, the frenzies of others, normal to me, wash over my young men, overwhelming them with sensations.  All their treatment work, all their counseling work on how to live now, out in society, as normal, healthy men, hasn't prepared them for this, the chaos, the cacophony of our daily world.  All this isn't book learning, or "the future", now.  It's reality, and it's hard.  And, it doesn't stop.  This class doesn't end.   

One Freedom Day, we head to a family lunch, in a busy restaurant, and I get to see some of the old family dynamics unfold, my buddy trying to deal with that, and how to order food, and how to deal with the chaos and drama at the tables around us.  He finds words to say to his brother, a guy he hasn't talked to in seven years.  I see them ease up a little, sharing a joke.  

He asks me what to order.

"Anything you want," I grin.  

And, we laugh, on every level.

I catch his eye and grin, giving him a wink.  He lets out a chestful of air, and grins back.  Yes, this is your new reality.  You can do this.  We are doing this.  And, it will be all right.

Freedom Day: The First Day of Parole and the Incoming Tide

On the beach, he found himself looking at the waves crashing onto the clean sand.  Seagulls flew by and landed in a group, just above the incoming tide.  The skies were clearing from yesterday's storm, and the air was fresh, clean, and free.

He was alone, except for the waves, and the gulls, and me, a hundred yards away, watching, watching over him, this first day of freedom.

I saw him gulp the cool, salty air, and then, another gulp, until finally his chest relaxed and he let it all go, released.

Released.  Let go from prison this morning, after six and a half years.  He knew the exact number of days, and had been counting down each one of them for as long as I'd known him.  

The gate swung behind us and clanged shut.  A familiar sound to me, after all the visits here with him and other young men, but a new, and final sound for him.  Other young men had brought all his belongings from six years behind bars, filling my car, readying us for his trip today to his new life, his new beginning.  

We drove away and he could only say "Man, oh, man."

I honked the horn at the empty road ahead, and offered a shouted "hooray", and he laughed, finally.  

He fell silent, after all the good byes and handshakes and hugs with all the other young men, and the prison staff.  Bittersweet, after months of anticipation, almost afraid to go, and move on with his life, from the known and the routine, into new places, new routines, and a new, fresh life.

The waves kept crashing onto the beach, and he had to run back a bit, when a wave moved up farther, almost soaking his shoes.  It was a good dance, turning into a bit of a jig, as he became a part of the incoming tide, a part of the morning at the beach, joining the world.

He'd sat down at our breakfast table, laughing at the big plate of eggs and bacon and sausage and the plate of biscuits fresh out of the oven, everything he'd ordered for this day.  A real fork and a real knife, not the plastic of the last six and a half years.  

I'd thought the event warranted breaking out my mother's silverware, and candlesticks, and china. Placemats, and all his favorites cooked to order, served on a china platter, and strawberries in a dish.

I refilled his coffee, and waited on him, hand and foot.  I thought he needed that, after all these years.

His birthday was tomorrow, and we only had this morning to spoil him.   I'd baked him a cake, and I slipped back into the kitchen, ready for a party.

I slipped back into the dining room, with blazing candles, and we broke out into a rousing "Happy Birthday".  

He laughed and nearly cried, and gave a lusty blow out to the candles, as we applauded.  I bet his wish was already granted: freedom.

He laughed again, the thought of birthday cake, and now, ice cream, for breakfast.  He said his grandmother wouldn't approve, but then, he laughed again, and said today was probably a good reason for an exception to the rule.  We laughed at him being the rule breaker, the scofflaw, not even an hour into his parole.

The sky got lighter and he spotted the neighbor's horse in the field, and the pink of the dawn.  It was a new view, after all.  Six and a half years in the same fenced compound, and now everything was new.  

He had a second piece of cake, and a bit more ice cream, and then opened up his card, and his presents.  Wonder sparkled in his eye, sitting here, in our house, and not where we'd always visited, behind that gate, that gate that clanged for him today, for the last time.  It was all new, and it was all delicious, sweet.

It was all about him today, all about getting out and making a fresh start, and moving on with his life.

Soon, we'd be in the car, and driving south, a big day.  A lot of miles to cover, and a lot of time to catch up on.  

First the beach, and then, along a bay, and then a river, and through the forest, then farmers' fields, and a city.  He stared out the window, not saying much at times, and on we went.  

He asked me about the trees, what they were called, and what about the salmon in the river, and what kind of logs were on that log truck.  

We came to a place where we could go one way, or the other.  Both roads led to where we were going, so it didn't matter, and he told me which way to go.  He chuckled then, at the choosing of which way to go, which road looked better.  He's made a decision; it was not a big deal, but then, maybe it was.  

In the city, we met up with his good friend, a guy who had gotten out of the same place a week earlier, and was doing fine.  He'd settled into his new home, a halfway house.  He had a seven p.m. curfew, and laughed when others there thought that was too confining.  In a month, he could be out until eleven, more freedom than he'd ever thought could be.

I took the two young men to a steak house, so they could eat their fill of meat.  They'd both been craving barbeque, and big, greasy ribs, for quite a while, and ordered the big plates of beef, and chicken, and a mound of fries.   Menus and ordering and making decisions on all the food was new to them, and when the attractive waitress joked around with them, they didn't quite know what to do, at least for a minute.

All too soon, the big plates were clean, and bellies were full, and smiles were seen all around.  

We said good bye to the young man we'd picked up, and headed off, heading to where home was six and a half years ago.  We laughed about lunch and all that he could eat, and the extra slice of birthday cake I'd packed for him before we left my house.

He got quiet then, when the freeway sign told us how many miles it was to home.   All this freedom was getting to him, finally, getting right into his heart.

Off to the side of the freeway, there was a beautiful field, shining in the sun with that first bright green that comes with the two or three springlike days of February.  Those days are always a tease, making us think spring is here, but it isn't.  

The green was real, though, and worthy of mention.

So were the sheep, grazing on the grass.  An entire flock of ewes, and their newborn lambs.  The  woolly babies were running and jumping, celebrating the newness of their lives and sunshine and green grass and promise of spring.

"I'm free," he whispered then.  "I'm finally free."

Fresh tears flowed then, from all the eyes in the car, and we didn't speak for quite a while, caught up in that moment.

We were both free, that day, even if the promised spring was not yet here. There was freedom in the air, in the rush of the incoming tide, in the color of the sky at dawn, in the light on his face from all the birthday candles, and the dance of the lambs on the fresh green grass of a new spring.

Neal Lemery 2/26/2013