Coronary Care

Coronary Care

Being 

present

with my friend, 

wheeling into heart surgery

so close to dying, yet that loving 

heart now

reborn,

oxygen and blood 

and life flowing

strong

again,

in every beat.

Hearing his voice

stronger now,

tears joyfully on my face, his

healing already begun--

his heart attack self home

the next day

after the surgeon

is inside his heart,

opening up arteries

with new science.

Life

more precious now

richer in blood and oxygen--

Spirit soaring--

nothing taken for granted

everything previous

everything so

alive.

Neal Lemery

9/6/2012

Come September

Come September

Come September, and it is the start of a new year.  School is starting, vacations are ending, the garden is in full harvest mode.  

The long season of lawn mowing has slowed, nearly stopped, and one has time to wander around the yard, taking in the flowers, and the now unmistakeable presence of the start of Fall.  Summer is still here in the heat of the afternoon, but the early morning crispness and heavy dew is a sign of transition in the calendar, in the cycle of the seasons.

The last few months have been their usual blur of activities: chores and projects, sandwiched between work, and the summertime events.  

We still haven’t made it to the local farmers’ market this year, and have only had a few walks on the beach.   I took a long anticipated hike a few weeks ago, realizing it had been a while since I hit the trail, what with trying to find where I’d last laid down my hiking boots and my binoculars.   

A family reunion was fun, with great food, singing, and visiting folks I hadn’t seen for a year.   And, we had an unplanned one later one, gathering for a funeral, and remembering the wonderful stories and laughter of a favorite uncle.   Another reminder of how important it is to find the time for the fun and adventure of happy times, and good memories, and the strength of families.

One evening, we had the joy of listening to a favorite due sing and work their magic with their guitars and mandolin.  They played a concert at the youth prison we go to every week, visiting and mentoring young men.   There was a special joy in our hearts, watching young men enjoy themselves, becoming one with the music, and pondering their own talents and dreams.  Again, I was reminded of the power and gift of music in our lives.

Every week, I take my guitar there, through the prison gate, and play and sing with one of my buddies.  His musical talents are amazing, and an occasional tear runs down my face, as I share his joy and gifts, and watch him grow and find himself.   My guitar teacher is now part of his life,  and his skills seem to grow exponentially.

Their Pow Wow last week was a celebration of Spirit, of their many rich heritages, their creativity, and, above all, of their rich and fruitful community.  I was humbled and honored to be asked to come, and sit with them, and dance with them, in all their splendid and welcoming community.

I go there as a mentor, but I really am the receiver, the mentee, the beneficiary of so many gifts from those amazing young men.

As with every summer, there never seems to be enough evenings sitting outside, just enjoying the end of the day and the solitude of the yard.  Yet, we have had those wonderful evenings, and an hour here or there just enjoying the place and the day.   

Last week, my chore list got sidelined, and I rediscovered my canvasses and paints, and brushes, and spent a few hours lost in art.   My soul was happy, and the frustration inside of me that I’d hadn’t really had all the fun I’ve wanted this summer floated away.   Later on, I played my guitar and sang a few songs outside,  building up good memories of time well spent.

I held myself to one weekend wedding this summer, and savored the experience of love energy, a beautiful woman walking down the aisle, and the smile on her husband’s face.  There was much laughter and happiness, on a sunny evening, where barbecue smoke and good music lingered into twilight.

I’ve also found some riches in getting rid of things, and cleaning up a bit.  My golf clubs, which had accumulated dust, are now in the hands of a high school student who is passionate about his golf team.   My childhood .22 rifle is now in the hands of a firearms instructor, and my mother’s deer rifle will soon be in the hands of a young man passionate about the sport and time out in the woods with his family.   

My baby picture is now hung on a wall, rather than sitting in a box gathering dust, and there is a large pile of old papers waiting for the end of fire season and a new burn barrel.   Other treasures await my rediscovery of them, and the crossroad questions of “toss or save”.   At 59 years old, the “toss” answer is becoming more popular.

The real treasures now are time with family and friends, and in simply being present amidst the natural beauty that surrounds us.  And, I keep learning to pay attention to that, and to be present in all of that.

Come September, I hope to simply be grateful for all that is, in my life.

Neal Lemery 9/1/12

Celebrating My Uncle

“Uncle” is an honorable title, originally defining one’s position in a family, as new generations are born.  But, eventually, the title is really one that is earned, becoming a position of trust, a special niche in the life of a child, growing up, coming of age, moving into adulthood, and beyond.  Not every man earns the title of “uncle”.  

The special men who were uncles in my life were always larger than life, holding a place near to my heart.   They were there at special times, sometimes being the giver of presents.  Yet, the real value was in their presence, their strong place in my life.   Sometimes, they would offer advice.  But, more often, they were simply there, being interested in me, and I felt their love.

They would tell stories, laugh, joke around with me, and with others in the family.  They often would speak, often quietly, about values and morals, and the important things in life, such as friendship, and trust, and dependability.  It was not only in their words, but in their actions, their kindnesses, how they went about their lives, raising their own kids, and taking time to raise me, once in a while.

My uncles offered me a haven, a refuge from the world.  We would often sit in near silence with each other, as I took in their quiet strength, their strength of character, their availability to me.  

No question was stupid, no remark considered inane, or immature.  Where I was at in life was just that, where I was at.  And, if I needed advice, I could ask.  There was no laughter in the asking, and no sassy remarks about my questions, or my worries.  

The advice was often wrapped up into a story, an anecdote about their experiences, their struggles.  Often, they laughed at what they did, and how they got through something that was bothering them.  And, in that telling, and that laughter, there was deep wisdom, and compassion for where I was at, and what I needed.  Many lessons were taught that way, in story and in experience, and I listened hard.

And, when they hugged me, it often wasn’t about their strong arms wrapped around me, or the pat on the back, or the strong handshakes.  It was, instead, support, empathy, and brotherhood.   I was accepted for who I was, and where I was going.  And, in knowing I wasn’t the first one to walk along that path, and climb over those obstacles.  They’d faced all that too, and more.  And, they’d lived to tell the tale, and to move on with their lives.  

If they could do all that, and joke and smile about how tough that journey was, and all that they had learned, then I could walk that walk, too.  

It wasn’t like they were being my dad, and playing the fatherly role.  I needed that, too, and I’d learned how important parenting was in one’s life.

But, the art of being an uncle is not in the fathering.  It often goes deeper than that, still family, still mentoring, and rearing up, but in a different light, a different slant.  The art of being an uncle is often practiced with some distance, some space and time.   There’s more objectivity, more “over the long run” perspective to the conversation.  And, a lot less drama, a lot less demand to get it right, right now.  

Fathers are more impatient, more demanding of the instant change, the instant behavior modification in the child.  They live in the same house, and want to get things done right now.  Dads can often be expected to be on call 24 hours a day, so patience is not always a virtue for the parental figure.

Uncles are more forgiving, more patient with the process of growing up, of coming of age.  They’re more willing to wait, and to be more hesitant, more cautious with their words, their counsel.  Time is a big tool in the tool chest of the uncle.  He’s willing to wait around, to wait until you ask, or until the time is right so that he knows you are really listening.  

The older I get, the more I cherish my uncles.  Their numbers dwindle over time, and the times of deep conversation and quiet advice become more rare, and more appreciated.  They weren’t all that numerous in my life to begin with, and now that the gray hair in the family has moved to my head, I miss them more dearly.  

In the last few weeks, one of the great uncles in my life slipped away from all of us, and moved on to another world.   He came into my life when I became part of my wife’s family, about a third of a century ago.   

It was a perfect fit.  He’d never met a niece or nephew he didn’t love unconditionally, and  open his heart and his ears to anything they needed in life.  He’d pour out his love to any one of them, as needed and as wanted.  His heart had an endless supply of all that was needed.  And, so, marriage to one of his nieces was all that he needed to offer me the same, no strings attached.

And, soon, I was welcomed, with open arms, jokes flying, and his contagious laugh and endless string of stories lighting up all the times I had with him.  

We didn’t need to talk much about how we liked each other.  With him, all that was just something to be understood, to be taken for granted, just like his love.  I sensed he didn’t want to have me try to define what was between us, or what he was to his family.   With him, what was really important didn’t come out in words, anyway.  He was deeper than whatever you tried to say. 

Words and definitions and any kind of analysis would have just left him cold.  That wasn’t his style.  He was a man of action, of living life deeply and vibrantly.  Life wasn’t to be defined or discussed, it was to be lived.  

He lived a deep and rich life, loving without hesitation, and working hard.   He gave freely, of his time and his passions, spreading joy and friendship throughout his ever growing circle of friends and family.  

He slipped away from us last week, leaving us to retell some of his stories, some of our adventures with him.  We remembered his laughter, his passions, and his deep, abiding love for us.  

And, as I listened to those stories and those memories this week, as we gathered to mourn and to celebrate a well lived and rich life,  I saw that he had taught all of us well in that art of being an uncle, of living a life of service and love.  His craft of being the uncle was all around us,  and his work in all that was learned well.  

He was the master of all that, a master of the art of being an uncle.  And, I am most thankful for all that he was and all that he taught to the world.  

--Neal Lemery

8/20/2012

The Gift of Listening

There is power in having some space.  

At the end of the day, that time of simply being outside, in the sun of midsummer, taking in the moment, the quiet, there is space.  Space for thoughts, for sorting out the events, the emotions, the experiences of the day, and giving all of that jumble time to breathe.  All of that becomes sorted out, thought through, and given some rest.  

In being with a friend, hearing their story, giving them the space in this thing we call time, to be given the opportunity to find their voice, to share their words, to show what is on their heart, and in their mind, is a precious gift.  By being ears for them, they are free to give expression, to not be judged, to not be lost in the cacophony of chatter.  

That is a precious gift, a gift we seldom give, and we seldom receive in our world of endless tasks, deadlines, meetings, agendas, and projects.  How often do we simply “be”, and allow the sense of completion, of satisfaction, resolution of a task to simply fill our souls?  How often do we listen to that sweet silence of realizing that we have completed something, that a task has ended, an experience has been completed, and be simply in a state of recognition of that event?

And, that gift of listening, of space, is often best given to myself.

After a long and arduous meeting, on a beautiful summer’s day, I found myself in a quiet park by a bay, alone at a table.   I’d brought a simple supper and my guitar, and took off my shirt to enjoy the feel of warm sun on my skin, and the bit of a breeze coming off of the ocean, rustling the pine trees and the wild flowers.  There was a bit of salt in the air, and that warm, mellow summer smell of dry grass and sun warmed dirt.   

The jumble of all of the discussions, the planning, the decision-making, the politics of the group still bounced around in my head.  Trying to make sense of all of that, and what I was going to do with the day’s experience, filled my brain.  

Then, in the peace of that moment, and that quiet space,  the ideas, the emotions began to fall into place, to be put in order, and, finally, to be given perspective.  The cold beer, the cheese, the crackers, and the breeze on my skin brought me back to earth, back to the moment of this beautiful day.  

Slowly, I began to be aware of the bank of fog just offshore, the nearly full moon peaking over the mountain ridge, the group of hikers starting out on a trail, simply ready for adventure.  I could taste the age of the sharp cheese, feel the crunch of cracker in my mouth, and savor of bitterness of the hops of the beer.  My fingers became eager for the feel of guitar strings on calloused fingertips, repeating patterns and the joy of learning something new, by feel, by intuition.  

The noisy chaos of the day’s work faded now, my soul pushing it away, restoring my sense of perspective, my sense of what is really sacred about the day.

In that simplicity, I picked up my guitar, tuning the strings, bringing order to the guitar, to my experience, to the moment.  Soon, old, familiar chord patterns and strums, making melodies, making songs, filled my ears.  The conflicts from the meeting, the politics and the pushing and pulling of the meetings all fell away.   My ears, released from all of that, now were able to hear the sound of pine branches and grass in the breeze, the distant call of birds, the slow movement of the tide across the mudflats, the thud of a paddle against the hull of a kayak, and the vibrations of the guitar strings.

Wristwatch time faded away, only the movement of sunlight across the table, and the guitar, and its dance with the tree branches above me were left.  I became inside of the music, inside of the place, meeting up again with my soul, simply being present, quiet, at ease.

And, space opened up, space for me to simply “be”, to breathe, to experience this life in all its glory.  

Driving home, I felt alive, complete, re-oriented with the sacred, the holy.  All of the noise of the meeting had been left on that picnic table by the bay, alone with itself, left to disappear with the setting sun.

Restringing

Unwinding the string from the tuning peg, and popping out the peg by the bridge, the old string flayed around a bit, before I coil it up and set it aside.  It had lived a good life, part of the first strings on my buddy’s first guitar.  

He’d worn it out, as he tried out his first few tentative chords and strumming patterns, toughening his finger tips and the side of his thumb.  He’s a finger picker, first and foremost, quickly finding his groove as he brings the songs in his mind to life on the guitar.  He’ll do a lot with this guitar; he’s one of those natural musicians, playing the chords and the beat not too long after he first hears a song.  

He’s watched everything I’ve done with my guitar, when we get together and play.  And when someone else comes by and picks out a tune, he’s all eyes and ears.  What he soaks up is soon flowing out of his fingers, bringing out another song on his new musical pal.  

We clean off the fretboard with a rag and something called guitar honey.  The frets and the wood of the fretboard soon sparkle, along with the brand new strings.  He’s realizing all of his hours of picking, and learning new skills, has actually worn out the tough metal strings.  There’s been some progress here, with his new hobby, his passion that’s burst into flame in the last six weeks.

With each one, we push the ends through the tuning peg, wrapping it around, and then slowly tightening it, bringing it up to the proper pitch, playing an odd melody of increasing frequency; boing, boingg, BOING!  

He’s mystified, at first, at the process of changing strings.  It is another lesson in guitarmanship, this craft of creating music from this oddly shaped wooden box, a board, and six wires strung over a hole in the box.  Some call it a Tennessee flat top box, but we who spend our time with it would think a more spiritual name would be a better fit.  

Soon, the guitar is back in his hands, and he’s fine tuning each string.  The smile on his face telling me he’s hearing a sharper, clearer voice from his friend.  

The new strings, like his life now with the guitar, sharper, more defined, and more in tune.

7/2012

Petite Syrah, 2006 and Tierra Del Mar

“With celebration, comes friends.

With inspiration, comes creation.

With sophistication, comes elegance,

and with wine, comes life.”

      --Christine Andrew

On the beach, we walk

Midsummer calm, warmth of the sun,

the wind taking a much needed vacation.

The log calls us to sit, and open the wine

given by our son, in celebration of Father’s Day,

the real gift being the son in the life of his parents.

The sun dances in clearing skies, 

sparkling on the calm of the sea,

and the wide open silence of the beach.

We take the time to enjoy the moment,

the wine, the still of the air,

the slow murmur of the waves

far away, almost

low tide.

The Rock of Resentment

The Rock of Resentment

He spoke of his anger, raging inside, and his feelings about his family, his childhood, the place where he was at now, and what he struggles with.  His eyes flashed, his voice strong, energized as he shared what was deep in his heart, the pain, and the success.

“And, I’ve found a place to put all that, all my resentment,” he said, tears welling up, his voice quavering.  

It was his Resentment Rock.  

“I give it all to the rock, every day, so I can sleep at night, so I have a place for all this,” he said.

“And, this morning, it broke.  It’s in two pieces now.”

Silence filled the room, everyone feeling the tension as the rock broke, imagining that moment in his life.

Someone in the group asked him how he felt now, now that the rock of resentment has broken.

“Oh, I’m free. The pressure is off, the tension is gone.”

“Relief, I guess.  Yeah, relief.  All that resentment that was inside of me, and now, inside the rock, is gone.  It went away.  I just feel lighter now,” he said, one tear making its way down his young face.  

“I can move on, now.”

Later, when we had finished our conversations as a group, he talked to a woman.  She had spoken in our group about a place she was making in her garden, a place to grieve, and an offering vessel she had made.  It was a place where people could come to pray, and leave an object, a symbol of their loss, their grieving.  It was a place of honoring one’s grief, and the memories of good times, and hard times. It was a place to honor what goes on, deep in our hearts.

“Could you put this there?” he asked.  “I want you to take the rock, and put it there, so I can let it be.  I need a place to leave the rock, a place for all my resentment to be.”

He took the two pieces of the rock out of his pocket, showing us how the two pieces fit, jagged edge to jagged edge.   He let me hold them.  The rocks felt heavy, my fingers sensing the burdens they contained.  

His hands trembled, as he put the two pieces in her hand. A large whoosh of air escaped from his chest.

“It’s time to let all that go, and move on with my life,” he whispered, tears soaking into my shirt. 

6/30/12