I stumbled upon a few words from Oscar Wilde that sparked a few talks and some thought:” always forgive your enemies. Nothing annoys them so much. ”

The nature of forgiveness and absolution is difficult to grasp but some points are available. It seems that forgiveness is often undertaken to comfort the forgiver; forgiveness has no power to change the event or absolve the real-or perceived-transgression. It is simply a step toward unburdening the forgiver of resentment and anger and the burdens that come with them. It is an act of self care that neither absolves or corrects…it relieves.

Our very sensitive and implantable souls do not forget a thing . There is no real closure or, “moving on” but rather an analgesic for the person who has been wronged. Historically we have understood that absolution can not be granted by another human being…it must come from a power beyond human limitations…if it comes at all. Forgiveness gives us a chance to drop ultimate responsibility for judging the actions of others. Forgiveness is in a sense freedom.

We are freed from the need to create a narrative that sanitizes horrible behaviors and it frees us from the burden of judgement.

Because we are human and prone to the transgressions that come with that state, we all have been forgiven at some time or another. Have we forgiven ourselves?

When we do or say something that we know is wrong and hurtful our best option is to make- or attempt to make- amends for our conduct. Often amends are not possible or not accepted. By making the effort we are further unburdened. As theologian Lewis B Smedes once observed, ” to forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.”

So forgiving one’s enemies is a perfect type of self care that peels away our guilt, anger and intolerance. I have no power to absolve anyone but I sure can forgive them. I need to take care of myself.

Bell choirs ring the changes and end up with beautiful music but for most of us change has nothing musical about it. Some changes are simple and easily effected. We change our oil, or our toothpaste with impunity and with little or no fear. Changes on the next level are practical. When we have a knee replacement we look for a single story house; when we cook for 10 we need a bigger pot. Again, this change level is virtually without great fear. There is a whole level of change, however, that can be transformational…transmutation, conversion, mutation… all describe the type of change that is terrifying.

Abraham Maslow – he of the famous hierarchy of needs – described our choices when the big changes come: ” In any given moment we have two options. To step forward into growth or step back into safety.” as I get older, I see the validity of stepping in both directions.

The 92128 Gang handles changes in unique and often creative ways. Often the changes are small amendments to our daily lives such as more exercise, better diet, more travel. Often we step toward safety, we don’t water ski or race cars. We are like kids who are unable to get off the roller coaster of life so that change has become the norm and a strange new comfort zone. Time forces us to accept our growing limits and at the same time time gives us a perspective on events. We are less reactive and we barely care about how we are perceived by society at large.

This does not mean that our hearts can’t be broken. Friends die, children move away and some food has lost its flavor. As a rule we still step towards growth. We are constantly advised to try new things to stave off dementia. It seems that real dementia is more likely if one careens from one new experience to another. I do not despise those who step towards safety.

I will not learn to play scratch golf in my remaining days but I will ride a camel in the Jordanian desert. What does this mean?

I think it means that I-and the 92128 gang- are game. We are ready to take on life’s challenges and we reserve the right to step back into safety at any time we see fit. We ring the back bells. Back bells are the ones that are heavier and they limit the speed of the composition. We ring the bells of family, volunteerism, book clubs and wine parties. We are not tired of the tune but we choose to ring at our own pace.

We believe the words of Barbara Kingsolver…” the change we dread most may contain our salvation.”

I am not a patient man. I know it. My lack of patience is much the same as the other emotions and character traits that are common to us all. Most human qualities exist on a type of spectrum along which a turning point exists. Toughness of mind is positive until it descends into stubbornness, creativity flourishes until a turn to madness appears. Patience proceeds in a healthy manner until it flips to cowardice or ennui. Most qualities are reversible…good for us until they are not.

Non-resistance to evil does not come easily. Today, I was in the grocery shifting my weight from foot to foot as the checker picked up, considered and scanned every item of the person in front of me. Her pace was glacial and her focus on any type of customer service was non -existant. After 10 minutes she began speaking to a co-worker with a bunch of celery poised in her hand. We had miraculously reached the halfway point of her transaction.

Clerks also want to share the state of their dog’s health. the progression of their cystic growths and the time that their shift ends. For a long while I survived this ordeal with a modicum of patience. I even remembered a line from Shakespeare, ” I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.” It did not last.

When she yelled out, “where’s Matt?” I quickly responded with, “nobody cares…ring up the groceries.” My poor wife was embarrassed and the service got markedly worse after any outburst. This caused me to ask some questions, chief of which were, “how much of this crap should I have to put up with?-and- why couldn’t I stand the incompetence? Certainly, my lack of patience didn’t help the situation a bit. An old English cleric/historian named Thomas Fuller once observed that, “abused patience turns to fury.” I was pissed off, indeed.

Lack of patience has served me as well as patience over the years. Impatience got me college degrees, work successes and much more. Of course, lack of patience has given me wrecked cars, broken relationships and spilled coffee. Where is the sweet spot on the spectrum where one remains engaged with the type of patient endurance that achieves positive results? I am stumped.

I guess I’ll need to be patient to find the answer…you have to be patient to achieve patience. I wonder if I’ll ever figure it out.

This morning I watched two generations teaming up on a pumpkin cheesecake. As they began I thought that we could add a third helper and replay a scene from Macbeth. Before long it became sweet and comical as everybody threw in an opinion or observation. The grandson burst into laughter when his mom asked if the pan was the required 10 inches and his Nana whipped out a measuring tape to confirm. It was a a contractor at work and the whole project took on a architectural dimension.

This is the day of Thanksgiving and simple domestic scenes like this seem to be the warmest and sweetest memories we enjoy. Can’t forget your mother putting a can of fried onions on the string beans or floating a can of fruit cocktail in a ridiculous lime green jello. I enjoy the talks about turkey cooking methods, tips and secrets. There’s the brown bag method, the cheesecloth twist, or-for the fearless-the deep fryer. Son in law plans to immerse the fowl in gallons of peanut oil . If necessary, we will all take cover.

As the preparations continue, the spiritual aspects of the day start to kick in. Meister Eckhart – one of my favorite mystics- put it well: ” If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” The thank yous that we offer have weight and dimension, they are the building blocks of a happy life. Thinking back, I’ve always said thank you…they were the last words I said to my mother before she died and hope they will be the last words I say on this plane of existence.

The family swirls about, the cheesecake has come out of the oven actually looking like a cheesecake, one granddaughter naps and the other kids are playing by the lake. That’s a full cornucopia. Thoreau once said, “my thanksgiving is perpetual.” I get it.

So have a wonderful day and when grandma passes you the yams don’t forget to say thank you.

As I write, a pumpkin pie is making the rounds to all of The Gang of Eight’s homes. The otherworldly pastry was originally, purchased for a party attended by the whole group. Given the size of the party to be served the initial purchasers – no doubt- felt that a very large one was needed. The pie that eventually showed up at table was twice the size of a Major League catcher’s mitt and only slightly smaller than a full moon.

The day after the pie premiered, it showed up at my house in time for lunch and I am now forced to pass it on to the next home. After three days of consumption I have no doubt that the pie will be no smaller than it was at the time of purchase. it reminds me of the miracle of the five loaves and two fishes…a reality defying manifestation of some higher power.

I can only conclude that some day we will all be buried by a landslide of pumpkin pie. It will slide over us silently and inexorably.

On the positive side of the ledger the pie is very good. I am up at night speculating about the time that the massive tin foil dish will be empty…can that happen?

The down-side of the big box store is manifest. There is a good feeling in knowing that you have 30 gallons of mayonnaise but how much tuna salad can you eat? Perhaps a case of spontaneous generation occurs while I sleep. It’s downright eerie.

Beware the friends bearing pie. It’s not as harmless as it looks. Ben Franklin weighed in on my problem. “in general, mankind, since the improvement of cookery, eats twice as much as nature requires.” I wish the intake was only double.

“Anyone want some pie?`

Today I went with my wife to Rosecrans Military Cemetery on Cabrillo Point south of San Diego. This garden of stone memorializes over 100,000 veterans of America’s wars. As we walked to the gravesite that had special meaning for us, one thing became abundantly clear. Carved into the stones were the names of the fallen, their ranks, the wars in which they served and religious symbols appropriate to the particular veteran. This place is as evocative as any war memorial and it conjures visions of battles far away in time and place. Here and there a citation was noted…a Navy Cross, a Silver Star, a Purple Heart.

Another fact was manifest on the symbols and signs. The names told a powerful story. In one small section I saw the names Rodriguez, Chin, Levy and Smith in close proximity; the Christian cross The Star of David , The Star and Crescent were all there to remind us that the ultimate sacrifice was made by people of all ethnic backgrounds and not a few generations.

Though I came from a generation that energetically protested the war in Vietnam, I never protested the people who fought it… they were victims too. There are-of course- too many wars but there are too few people who serve and their sacrifices deserve remembering.

Once I stood at the Vietnam Memorial in DC and saw a man covered in medals and wearing a boonie hat. I shook his hand and told him that I hated the war and loved him for his service. “I hated the war too,”he said and added,”I’ve been waiting to hear that for a long time” . I left as he was taking rubbings of the names he had known.

It is very hard to hold a hatred of war and love for the war fighter in one’s mind and this trip to Rosecrans made it even harder. But one thing was perfectly clear as Arthur Ashe put it : “true heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic ” It is as quiet and monolithic as a garden of stone.

May they rest in peace.

As the 92128 denizens continue to age certain behaviors are noted that suggest concern about cognition, regularity and the multiple organs of the body. Our gatherings are marked with discussion of healthy bowels, gall bladders and the big C. We are frantically doing the New York Times crossword and sudoku to maintain our cognition and every time we lose our keys we hope it is just a “Senior Moment” and not the beginning of the slippery slope to dementia. We agree with the writer Martin Amis: ” and meanwhile time goes about the immemorial work of making everyone look and feel like shit.”

We are striving mightily to stave off the ravages of time. None of us has put our keys in the refrigerator yet and so far everyone has returned to their home after an outing. The signs are hopeful. As Oscar Wilde suggested we are, ” not young enough to know everything”” and boy do we feel it.

Some just quit the task of self improvement. After all, learning a foreign language or rebuilding a classic car is exhausting work. Fortunately-I believe- the answer lies elsewhere.

What I seem to need to fight aging is work on patience and patterns. The patience it takes to engage with people and things and thereby, to learn something and the ability to see the interrelationship of things. It takes energy to keep these things working is often daunting. I need to listen to people’s stories and the courage to keep the mind open and not shut down by prejudice or contempt. I am no longer young enough to know everything.

Avoiding certainty and a rush to judgment are the best training and I hope for the mental energy to pursue a lightness of mind . I want to be the old guy that can entertain information that is new and unexpected without defaulting to the short-sighted assurance that I ” knew that.”

This can be scary. Often the truth comes in a terrifying way. You can have your smugness obliterated and then you have to reconsider…everything.

Now I get that old latin phrase Sapere Aude…dare to be wise.

My recent dance with the grandchildren gave me some new insights into each of the four, with a heavy emphasis on how they played. If you agree -as I do -with GK Chesterton that, “the true object of all human life is play” then you will agree that time spent in these observations is time well spent, indeed.

Coloring, sticker books, beach football, boogie boarding, dancing, carnival rides and a game of Old Maid or Sorry provided the field for research into the character of the little ones. The eldest is very competitive and athletic and his play reflected his advanced coordination and his powerful need to win. He knew some tricks, too…when daddy scored a touchdown he was invariably out of bounds and the score was nullified. After scoring two touchdowns he declared the score to be 50-0. In his play space a touchdown was worth 25 points…if he scored it. This kid will one day be the mayor of a city.

The second eldest child was considered a quiet player…until we found her out in the ocean boogie boarding happily and without supervision or direction. She simply decided to do it because it was fun. She captured that fun and a measure of independence at the same time. All her life she will be a quiet riot…occasionally underestimated but full of surprises.

The youngest girl was simply a riot. She pinballed and caromed about the place, stopping occasionally -if she liked the song- to “shake her booty”. She liked to roar like a lion at various times and imitating a puppy was a particular pleasure of hers. She will be a standup comic sometime in her life.

The youngest boy loved cars and coloring and was studious about driving a crayon willy-nilly over a large sheet of paper. He was a builder and a digger as the many holes and sand castles on the beach in his vicinity proved. College professor material.

Einstein said ” play is the highest form of research” and each of the kids were experimenting in their unique ways. Play is so natural to us. I can’t look at a body of water without throwing a stone into it. As the water ripples out in circles I feel that I’ve changed the world. Each of the kids were changing before my eyes as they chose their own games.

We never stop playing …doing the research into the nature of our lives. When we got home from our beach adventure I met the 95 year old mother of one of my friends. She told me her most recent bowling score.

Play on, my friends.

For the last four days I have been given a very clear view -and a better understanding of- this old Irish blessing: Children are the rainbow of life . Grandchildren are the pot of gold.

The rainbow was represented by sons, daughters and sons-in-law. The gold shined in four grand kids that capered and clashed all over a large, rented beach house on Sail Bay in San Diego. These precious little nuggets were very busy pin balling between toys and treats, crying and coloring, dancing and diaper changes.

The real treat for this old man was to watch the early manifestations of very complex ideas….tewamwork, sharing, justice and FairPlay were all being developed before my eyes. What was fully developed in each of them was humor…they instinctively knew how to tell a good joke, how to make someone laugh. As the older grandson was busy wrestling with me, pillows were launched at my head from the others . They attacked with artillery and they attacked Mano a Mano. I didn’t stand a chance.

Some of the kids fell into deep discussions with the nearest adult and they asked wonderful questions on subjects from genealogy (you had a grandma?) to sports (what is an RPO?) to biology (where are the lizards?). Invitations were many… wanna play my word game? Wanna color? Wanna play catch? I really wanna!

The four little ones were locked in with people who doted on them. At two amusement parks enough stuffed animals were won to create a fluffy menagerie. Ice cream, cake, cookies, snacks were consumed at a very high rate.

Nothing in life can be so dire that a grandchild can’t make it better. When a seven year old wants to play catch, a five year old wants to cuddle and pair of three year olds want to show you their new dance routine all is right with the world. When a three year old walks up and announces , “I fell and hurt my booty” it’s hard not to smile and feel that all will be well, after all.

The second generation -the parents- make you happy too. It does your heart good to rediscover what successful people, good parents and interesting people they have become since they asked the questions and fell 0n their booties. Wonderful.

These four days make me want to agree with the philosopher George Santayana… ” the family is one of nature’s masterpieces.”

Pure gold.

By all means , marry.If you get a good wife , you’ll become happy; if you get a bad one , you’ll become a philosopher”. —Socrates

As I bounce around 92128 I am able to observe the relationships that long lived couples have created and it is often amusing, sometimes touching and aways interesting. It is amazing to me that these partnerships have stood the test of time , have adapted to life’s challenges and are ongoing after many decades. I don’t think they have flourished only because the participants have merely become as comfortable as your favorite tee shirt. They exist in a certain place that is uncomfortable as one or the other person is challenging, skeptical and even demanding. Husband- or wife- steps up to inspire and demand your best.-

Being a wife has many challenges. We know about the oppression of the patriarchy and as men we know what challenges we bring to the table. We are “husbands” and even this word has the sink of livestock management about it. Despite the pigeonholing and demeaning language, ” good wives” soldier on.

Every morning for the last seventeen years my wife and I have coffee before the day starts and we spend thirty minutes or more talking about life from the small issues of a particular day to the existential questions that don’t have answers. This is the highpoint of every day. These sessions are the bedrock of our relationship.

92128 couples in our circle seem the same …enjoying easy, deep and frequent communication. Their stories include tragedies of loss, economic setbacks and many of the shocks that flesh is heir to but their communication remains easy and direct. This is miraculous given our tendency too hide and loll in our own neuroses.

Its wonderful to have a person that knows all of your faults and doesn’t run from your shortcomings. It is equally satisfying to be the person who reciprocates. My wife doesn’t care for my exaggeration , fabulism and verbal storms but she corrects with humor pointing out the absurdity of my assertion that there were 200 crows flying over, when only 20 made the trip. I tell her Im an Irishman and that’s how we roll. I think she gets it.

what could be better than living with a person who has a whacky sense of humor? During today’s coffee I told her that she needed to embrace her mistakes. She got up walked across the room and gave me a big hug.

Perfect.