Tears Of A Clown

I have to tell you, and I hope I don’t offend anyone by writing this, that clowns are kind of creepy.  I really never thought they were funny, and for just about forever, I was or am creeped out by them.

I mean:  white face paint, big red nose, floppy feet, painted on smile . . . see what I mean?

Remember the Stephen King classic, IT? 

The “bad guy” in the novel was Pennywise, the clown, whose tag line was, “We all float!”  Now tell me if that isn’t creepy!

In the old days . . . yes, even before my time, though not much . . . there were court jesters.  They were to amuse the court and the king in particular.  The unfortunate aspect of their job, however, was if they failed at being funny, they were sometimes put to death.  Not necessarily a job I would apply for.

Parades have clowns.  The circus has clowns.  Balloon animals.  Stilts.  Funny bicycles.  All that.  It has been a part of our culture and in spite of what I write or how I feel about them, clowns will always be around.

It is the concept of the clown I find interesting, though.

Smokey Robinson sang a song back in the ‘60’s titled, Tears Of A Clown.  The lyrics included:

Just like Pagliacci did

I try to keep my sadness hid

Smiling in the public eye

But in my lonely room I cry

the tears of a clown

When there's no one around

I know any number of people who can apply that lyric to their life, their feelings.  I see kids in the hallway, teachers working with their students or with their colleagues, who I know are moving through life carrying an unkind and heavy burden they might not be able . . . perhaps unwilling . . . to share with just anyone because it isn’t safe to do so.  There is hurt, there is sadness, and in that hurt and sadness, vulnerability.

More recently, Zak Brown sang a song, Goodbye In Her Eyes and it contains the lyric:

Sometimes I feel like a clown

Who can't wash off his make-up

Sad, really.  A clown . . . a person . . . somebody . . . who hasn’t received permission from him or herself, from others, to wash off the make-up.  Cast in a movie of life to live a character of perhaps his or her own choosing.  Perhaps of someone else’s choosing.  Never to be real, but just a character . . . a caricature.  Really sad, I think.

The actor, Jeff Goldblum was on an evening talk show discussing his role in a movie and the host asked the question, “How hard is it to get into a role?”  I will never forget his response.  He said, “It is only in acting that we are our true selves.  It is in life we play a role.”

Hmmm . . .

I think he has a point.  Kind of scary. 

A pretty tall order, a tough task: To know the difference between our true selves, the role we play, the mask we wear, and the make-up we’re afraid to or can’t wash off.  To be cast in a part, a role, of our choosing or someone else’s choosing.

And even sadder is the fact that we don’t recognize the sadness behind the smile, the sadness that rests in one’s eyes, the hurt disguised in the laugh.  Of kids.  Of our colleagues.  Of our leaders.  Of those in charge.  Of those we rely on for help and strength and inspiration.  Instead, we presume, assume, that all is well because a tear hasn’t been shed, a cry was not heard, a plea for help was not uttered.  And because we don’t recognize that hurt, see the tear, hear the cry or plea for help, we don’t reach out, we don’t offer help.  We just move through our day thinking all is well with me . . . with you . . . with them. 

Sad, I think.  Really sad.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

A Parent's Love

On my way to school each morning, I pass a house maybe a half-block from the school.  There are times when I see a young man and his dad waiting for the bus.  The student is developmentally and cognitively disabled, and my assumption is that this young man goes to a shelter for training.

A special bus comes to pick the young man up and the father walks with his son and waits until he is seated, and then stands at the edge of the driveway and waves as the bus pulls away.  It is only then that the father slowly, with a limp, walks back to his house.  It happens each day, every day.

It is touching and moving and no matter what I have planned for the day that faces me, no matter how much in a hurry I might be, that scene played out each morning calms me somehow and seems to put me in a better place.

A Parent’s Love.

My father-in-law and mother-in-law, Kim’s parents, are raising my nephew, Shannon, a fifteen year old cognitively and physically challenged boy.  Chronologically, Shannon is a year younger than my daughter, Emily, but cognitively, much younger than that.  Kim’s sister, died a few years ago from a massive seizure, leaving her son, in the care of her parents. 

For parents in their seventies . . . for parents of any age . . . they do a remarkable job providing for Shannon’s emotional and physical needs.  They take Shannon to and from a special baseball league just for kids and adults like Shannon.  They take him to and from physical therapy and speech therapy, and even a special training center where Shannon learns life skills.  They treat him as their own son, not as a grandchild, and the love they have for him and the love he has for them is readily apparent to anyone who takes the time to notice.

A Parent’s Love.

I watch teachers in my building work with kids with autism, Down’s syndrome, and kids with other cognitive and physical disabilities, and their patience and love for our kids is astounding and actually, humbling.  They are patient, kind, and nurturing.  They truly care about and love these kids as if these kids were their own.

Linda is an art teacher who came to me a year or so ago with an idea.  She wanted to develop an art class for kids who are cognitively and physically challenged.  And she did.  These kids do amazing work.  Other regular education students buddy up with one of the other kids and they work as a team.  I’m not sure who has more fun, but I do know that without Linda, it wouldn’t have happened for any of them.

Scott is a young man I got to know many years ago when I coached summer basketball camps.  Nice young man, a leader, quiet, and humble.  Years later, he became an adaptive physical education teacher because he wanted to.  “His calling,” he said.  When I had commented that he was a gift to these kids, Scott thought about it, smiled, and said, “I think they are a gift to me.”

A Parent’s Love.

You know, there many examples of parents, teachers, coaches, paraprofessionals and volunteers who care for and love their kids, our kids.  They don’t view these kids as someone else’s kids.  No, not at all.  Each of them will tell you that these are their kids.  And like Scott, they will tell you that these kids are gifts to them. 

Challenging?  Yes.  Some days tougher than others?  Yes.  But I have to believe that in each case, after watching these wonderful men and women both young and old, that there are many more good days than bad days.  Sort of makes my bad days seem less.  Sort of makes my bad days seem not so bad after all.  In fact, just thinking about these wonderful men and women, and having the opportunity to give them a shout out, causes me to smile and lightens my load a bit.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

In The Dark

When I was a counselor in California, among the many students who attended the school, was a young man who moved around the campus with a white cane.  The boy had no vision beyond one foot in front of him.  In essence, he was blind in spite of the very thick glasses he wore. 

Some of you might not realize that the high schools in California, for the most part, are built so that the classrooms open to the outdoors.  The “cafeteria” is often a grassy area in the middle of the campus.  Kids would sit and eat on the grass or at a picnic table or perhaps in inclement weather, lean on the walls on the sidewalk and under the overhang. 

This young man navigated the campus seemingly without effort.  Every now and then, students might move out of his way if they saw him coming in their direction or kindly explain an obstacle in his path like a broken concrete sidewalk.  They might gently take an elbow and help him around it and then off he’d go heading this way or that way, to or from his class.

I still picture him today as I write this.  A smile on his face.  Moving at not quite a quick walk.  Confident.  Friendly towards those he encountered.

He operated In The Dark.  His world and those whom he loved were In The Dark.  Yet, he lived, and studied, and worked, and listened to his music In The Dark.  He knew no other world, no other life.

It is a marvel to me, this young man, and I wonder whatever became of him.

There is a story, a parable I believe, that you might have heard once upon a time. 

In various versions of the tale, a group of blind men touch an elephant to learn what it is like. Each one feels a different part, but only one part, such as the side or the tusk or the leg or the trunk. They then compare notes and learn that they are in complete disagreement.  In some versions, they stop talking, start listening and collaborate to "see" the full elephant. When a sighted man walks by and sees the entire elephant all at once, they also learn they are blind. While one's subjective experience is true, it may not be the totality of truth.

I think that last line bears repeating . . .

While one’s subjective experience is true, it may not be the totality of truth.

In other words, we . . . each of us . . . might be In The Dark and not know it.  From our perspective, we see, we hear, we know whatever it is we see, hear and know.  But someone else might have an entirely different perspective.  It could even be that six or seven see, hear and know whatever it is they see, hear and know, and are in general agreement with what “it is” and still, they might not see, hear or know the totality.  At least, not without asking questions, seeking answers, and approaching the subject . . . a person . . . with an open mind. 

Instead, without asking questions, without seeking answers, and without the advantage of an open mind, an individual or group of individuals is fully content with what he or they “know” and proclaim it as “truth” when in fact, it is possible for him . . . for them . . . to be In The Dark.

So . . .

I ask you this simple question:  Where are you?  Are you content to move around and live In The Dark, or do you, with an open mind, ask questions and seek answers?  Are you willing to admit that perhaps you have a partiality of truth instead of the totality of truth?  On any given subject?  On any given day?  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Not A Spectator Sport

Steve Gleason was a safety for the New Orleans Saints for eight seasons and was most known for the block of a punt against the Atlanta Falcons.  This game happened to be the first home game after Hurricane Katrina and many have used that blocked punt as a symbol of the recovery efforts and rise of the city of New Orleans after the devastation that took place when Hurricane Katrina struck the Gulf Coast. 

While that block was important, to me, it is nothing compared to what Gleason has been able to accomplish since then.

You see, in 2011, Gleason revealed he had ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease.  He has a young son and Gleason has been recording messages to his son so that when Rivers grows up, he will know his dad.  Gleason has also taken patients on climbing expeditions and other adventures, directed a documentary, spoke at the United Nations and landed money to pay for technology for other patients.

The point is that Gleason didn’t stop living because he was faced with a disease that will eventually take his life.  And because of his refusal to keep on living, he might be the epitome of the slogan that Life Is Not A Spectator Sport.

I’m pretty sure we can think of one or two individuals who merely go through the motions and exist rather than live.  They’re perhaps comfortable with their life.  Perhaps, they might be, to a degree, satisfied with their life.  They might feel they have a job, make a living, have a house, a car, and pay bills on time.  Satisfied, because what else might they need?

But are they truly, really alive, or are they spectators in this great sport called life?  Are they just watching others live and laugh and love as one might do when one sits on a couch and watches a soap opera?

Life is meant to be lived.  It is meant to be loved.  It is meant to be held sacred and embraced and given to others like the Olympic Torch that is passed on from one to another until it lights the Olympic flame.

In the many cards that my family has received since my son’s death, there was a poem by Helen Steiner Rice that I would like to share with you.  Perhaps you have read it once or twice already and that’s okay.  It’s a good reminder for all of us.  It goes like this:

            “Time is not measured by the years that you live

            But by the deeds that you do and the joy that you give-

            And each day as it comes brings a chance to each one

            To love to the fullest, leaving nothing undone

            That would brighten the life or lighten the load

            Of some weary traveler lost on Life’s Road-

            So what does it matter how long we may live

            If as long as we live unselfishly give.”

What a gift each of us can be, should be, to others!  To help bring meaning to another’s life.  To bring a sense of caring, of concern, of compassion and passion itself.  We do those things for another and we are truly immersed in life ourselves.  We become active participants instead of spectators. 

And it isn’t the length of life that counts, but the quality of the life that is lived as we walk this earth with one another.

One last thought . . .

Gleason could have packed it in.  Others have and do in similar situations.  We’ve seen it.  And while those others might do so, there are yet others who go on to do other things, big things, great things with their lives no matter the length of time that is lived.

They live life as it should be lived.  Giving.  Loving.  Sharing.  Mentoring.  Raising up.  Helping.

My question to you this day is, who are you going to be: a Spectator or a Participant?  It is a choice and in that choice, you can and often do influence others to make a similar choice.  My contention is that Life Is Not A Spectator Sport.  It needs to be lived- each day, each moment of each day, and every moment of every day.  Something to think about it . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

I Swear I Lived

Yesterday, Kim and I traveled ten hours by car.  We took a different route than we normally drive when heading back to the Midwest, but we weren’t heading back to Wisconsin.  Instead, we drove to Indianapolis.

 

Along the way, we encountered the Eastern Mountains of varying heights and beautiful valleys both wooded and rocky.  The mountains gave way to farm country of rolling hills that turned flat as if a benevolent giant had run a hot iron over the land to straighten it out.  The city-scape changed from country to small dots on a map, and finally to large urban areas.

 

The day began in fog and then turned cloudy.  We had a patch of five minutes when rain made it impossible to see as we drove, no matter what speed I had the wipers on.  Eventually, blue sky peeked out tentatively from behind clouds and today as I write this, the sky is mostly blue with bright sun.

 

Sort of like life, really.

 

This past year I attended four funerals.  My nephew in October; my mom in April; my son just last month, and today, one of my best friends, Tom.  All were at different ages: Jared was in his early twenties and still a college student; my mom was 99; my son was only 28 and getting ready to begin a new job, his dream job; and Tom was 60.  Each year, he celebrated his birthday just twelve days before I did.  Each of them experienced a different death, but the end result was the same.  They were gone.

 

Yet . . .

 

In each case, however, Jared, Mom, Wil and Tom can each proudly say, “I Swear I Lived.”

 

Those words come from a song written and sung by the group, One Republic, titled “I Lived.”

 

Each commencement, instead of a ‘principal’s address’ I pick out a song with lyrics that seem to fit the graduating class and I sing it to them.  This past year, I chose the song, “I Lived” because it fit them. 

 

The chorus contains the lyrics:

“I owned every second that this world could give

            I saw so many places, the things that I did

            Yeah with every broken bone

            I swear I lived!”

 

I think it describes a life well-lived.  Certainly a life lived by Jared and Wil, though their lives were cut far too short.  My mom lived a long, long life, and Tom, well, 60 years might seem long, but being that same age myself, it seems kind of short to me.  Really, really short and I hope I get to live a lot longer than . . .

 

But I also hope that when the time comes, I can stand before the Lord and say, “I owned every second that this world could give; I saw so many places, the things that I did, yeah, with every broken bone, I swear I lived!”  And I believe the Lord will look upon me and nod.

 

But . . .

 

If I add the following, “And along the way, I tried not to hurt others, but if I did, I did so unintentionally.  I tried to make amends, to do better each and every time.  And, I tried very hard to lift up, to raise up, to lend a hand and extend a word of encouragement.”  I believe that if I can add those words, the Lord will not only give me a nod, but He will smile and extend His arms to give me a warm embrace. 

 

So to each of you who take the time to read this, I hope you follow Jared’s, my mom’s, Wil’s and Tom’s lead and say, “I Swear I Lived!”  I so hope you do.  And along the way, take the time to lift up, to raise up, to lend a hand and extend a word of encouragement.  And, try not to hurt others along the way, but if you do, make amends.  Please.  Something to think about . . .

 

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

 

To my readers:

Thanks so much for checking out my debut novel, Taking Lives.  It is now available in both eBook and paperback.  I’ll be happy to sign a copy for you.  I would be most appreciative if after reading it, you could go to the Amazon site and write a review.  It helps me and it might help another reader searching for a good read.  Thank you for taking a chance on a rookie writer! Joe