Wrestle And Be Grateful [on DR Thursday]

Watercolor - Jacob and Angel copy 2

Among the cruelest things I’ve ever said is that I didn’t want to be like Quinn. I spoke those words in frustration, anger and fear.

The truth is that I have spent most of my life trying to be just like Quinn. Articulate, well read, capable of seeing from many points-of-view. Funny. Following his own star. A great teller of stories. He was so wise.

Quinn died last weekend and, today, I am wrestling with my cruelty.

I imagined that one day I’d be able to take back or explain my angry words.  I imagined sitting with him in his study, surrounded by his books and yellow pads and red pens and old coffee and laughing at my folly. He had a great laugh.

The last time I saw him he came to a class that I was teaching. Even after my cruel words he showed up, happy to help me. He thrilled my students with his hilarious musings and tales of serendipity. “Cultivate your serendipity,” he’d say. Intend your happy accident.

I walked him to the door and he hugged me. I was sheepish and he was kind. “That was fun,” he said, mostly to help me in my discomfort.

Kindness. Another quality to emulate.

Mostly, as I wrestle with my angel, I am grateful that providence brought to my life such a good man, such a great teacher.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about WRESTLING WITH ANGELS

 

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this watercolor, wrestling with an angel, is old so let’s just say ©️ 2019 david robinson

Listen To Them [on Merely A Thought Monday]

cleared the path bridge copy

Saul taught me to look beyond anything I understood as an obstacle and, instead,  place my focus on the field of all possibilities. “Place your focus on the obstacle and you will deal with the obstacle. Place your focus on the possibilities and you will deal with possibilities.”

Tom taught me to choose my battles and to fight only those worth fighting. “You don’t want to die on every hill,” he said. “In life there are really only one or two hills worth dying on.”

Ironically, Quinn, one the best storytellers I’ve ever known, taught me not to make up stories. Pointing to the big tall bank building he said, “See those people up there on the top floor? They don’t know what they are doing, either. They’re just making it up, too.” Or, maybe, he was attempting to teach me to tell a better story about myself.

It is not an understatement to say that I am rich in guides, teachers and mentors.

Doug, a Vietnam vet and one of the best teachers I’ve known, one day called me into his office and showed me a tattered, ruined book of poetry. “I bought it in the airport on the way to the war,” he said. “It saved my life.” He told me the story and it made me weep. Doug taught me the power of art. So did Paul and Roger. My two MM’s (Master Marsh and Master Miller) continue to teach me this lesson. Dawson, too.

Kerri and I are in a period of change that is simmering with unknowns. It is not the first time in my life that the dense fog has come in. She asked, “What do you think will happen?” I said, “Well, ultimately we’ll die.” She punched me. “That’s not what I mean!” she groused, adding a second punch. “Geez.”

Later, after the double punch, we took a walk on the Des Plaines river trail. An elderly man came around the bend and said with great jest and enthusiasm, “I cleared the path for you! It’s all clear.”

“Clear.”  It’s a poetic term. It means ‘possibility.’ And I heard them, my chorus of teachers and guides. All of them. Loud and clear.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about CLEAR PATH

 

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