J...o...h...n...'...s.....J...o...u...r...n...a...l
A R C H I V E S
Thanks
for
visiting.
March 5 , 2001
Abandoning
the Chaos. . .
.
. . It
is difficult to believe it was thirteen years ago, but the ticking clock
is relentless, is it not?
We were the guests of the House of Jeffrey, discussing the subject of
emergency preparedness. The Clan Leader made his prediction— some
"degree of chaos" was in store. He urged readiness for a "worst-case
scenario." None of us could have anticipated the reality that lay
ahead, although, in his case, we cannot truly know his innermost concerns
that day. Within a few short years, two vital members of the Clan were
gone from our daily lives. And the quiet chaos that followed took years
(sometimes not so short) to fade away. No leader has emerged to replace
him, as if we ever expected one would or could. One never does, when it
comes to the "indispensable man," and, to the Clan that he founded
with his sweetheart, there was no one as indispensable as he.
.
. . There
are times, then as now, when I think his perspective could become fatalistic.
But what do I know of being 70, with a heart that might stop at any moment?
What do I know of living through a depression, fighting a hot war in an
alien world before the age of twenty-one, or winning a controversial cold
war after decades of anonymous toil— with the details too secret
to discuss, and the implications of failure too horrible to contemplate?
What do I know of bearing the full weight of responsibility for a legacy,
with the dream in jeopardy, when others could play in retirement?
.
. . And
yet, how optimistic he could be... how open with his thoughts and feelings!
Thank God for his Clandestiny revelations! When I consider how draped
in secrecy his professional existence, I remind myself how magnanimous
and self-revealing he could be when it came to his life's work— this
family!
.
. . So
now we continue to look ahead and plan, as we were taught to do, and move
beyond the uncertain '90s. There is a lesson somewhere in imagining an
event that may only lurk in a nonexistent future, and being challenged
to survive a calamity for which one can never be prepared.
Is the lesson to understand his example? To dream, set goals, and then
achieve them? Yes, and at the same time share the vision, record the ideals,
and give love as if there were no tomorrow.
Letting
go. . .
.
. . Mombo
suggested that I add the email about Uncle Robert's funeral to Clandestiny,
and I hope I find time soon to do just that. I appreciate her sending
on the messages about Aunt Esther and the news of how Uncle Art is doing.
The Seitz family story is a story of miracles, and, every so often, of
letting go. I've never been good at letting go. I hang on to way too much
stuff. I keep way too much tension in my body. I try to hang on to each
day, way beyond a proper bedtime. Maybe even my journals (nearly 30 years
of material) are an exercise in refusing to let go. Perhaps not having
offspring makes me seek a different kind of posterity.
.
. . Actually,
it's not easy to explain the value of a journal to another who does not
keep one. On the other hand, when you get your thoughts and feelings out
on paper, you can, in a sense, let go of them, and you are free to move
on to something new. As much as I like to look back, I've always been
impatient for the newness of what comes next, absorbing myself in the
experience of participating in the unfolding moment, what my friend Danny
Darst calls the "creative genesis." If that's what you're about,
he says, you're an artist, no matter what you do.
.
. . Is
that why Clandestiny is such a vital thing for me? Because it not only
allows us to look back, but also makes it possible for us to become something
more than we could be without it? Hey, I'll admit it to myself— I
won't let it go.
.
. . Do
you suppose that one of the blessings of a large family is the ample opportunity
to experience more of the great wonders and challenges of life? What a
gift to witness up close (again and again) the miracle of birth and the
soul's victory over sin, disease and death, so that we might be ready
when it is our hour! I pray for those in transition and those who must
let go. May they pass every test and know the fullness of Christ in each
new beginning.
March
12, 1996
Five years ago . . .
.
. . I'm
not sure why I want to write— no coherent thoughts, just various
and sundry fragments from the day... Ran at the cross-country course and
lifted afterwards. Getting stronger, but not happy with overall body fat.
Hope to get a bit leaner once bike season starts. Will need to watch the
feed bag if I expect to have a decent "Muscle Club." Today I
had the long conversation with Bob the graphics guy at Stone Container
in Florida. Suddenly things are getting intense with this 50-lb bag for
Burkmann Feeds. Tomorrow is going to be one of those hectic days on the
electronic tablet, illustrating for Butler Health Plan. During the night
I taped a rare U.N.C.L.E. episode on TNT. An intro I'd never seen before,
and oddest of all, black and white... 1965? Same year of the B&W season
of WWWest? Spent a few minutes at City Hall, in Steve G's office. Saw
a picture of his new little baby girl from India. Gets all kinds of emotional
juices going in me. Makes me wonder what it is that I really want anymore...
March 4, 1993
Eight years ago . . .
.
. . Dadbo
is much improved, and he should be getting out of the hospital soon. We
don't know yet if there is damage to the heart, but he seems to under
the care of a good cardiologist. (Interesting phrase, "under the
care." Why not "over the care?")
March 23, 1977
Twenty-four years ago . . .
.
. . Jim
and I drove to Columbus on this grey day to pick up the last of his larger
things. The chore is finished now. Riding back, I find it easy to relax
and look at various farms along the way. They are like organisms. They
function and then die, having reproduced or not. These farms, with their
varied lifespans, are like cells. It seems there are disease cells among
farms these days... more and more of them. I join Jim in his wish for
an organic farm away from the agri-industrial carcinoma.
Not keeping a journal is like taking a bath
without a stopper. Everything goes down the drain.
.
. . —
George Ella Lyon
T O P
