Life goes on. At least that’s what they tell us. Actually, by repeating the phrase back at other people, it helps make them feel better about you that you are feeling better—but you’re not. You’re just moving with the flow, swept up in the momentum of life moving forward.
In the fall, I found out a private school nearby needed people to come in at night and help some of their students during a time slot called “guided study.” I told the director a bit of my story and how I would try to make it through the first week, but that there were “no promises.” I did. And then, I made it through the next week, and the week after that. We are now in the month when the students I’ve met across weeks numbering in the 30s are looking forward to the end of the trimester and going home. I did better than I thought I would.
Maybe the reason I managed to do the “life going on” dance had to do with a young man I met my second week of tutoring. He needed help with his statistics assignment. I hadn’t done statistics in decades, especially statistical word problems that required solutions relevant to terms like median, standard deviation, mode, and variance. I had to draw “pictures” to figure them out. He said to me, “why are you drawing pictures?” We both learned that he was visual and this offered us a window into understanding his learning style.
The next night, I was asked if I wanted to work with him one-on-one. I said I’d give it a shot. We’ve been meeting four nights a week (and Sunday nights, too) since late September. I’ve learned that he likes order and routine. I’ve tried to create that five nights a week.
My days are spent working on other things. I’m writing a book. A week ago, I drove to Waterville and then, Oakland, and offered a new seminar I’ve developed, The ABCs of Medicare. I began my week by sending out another newsletter for the Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund. Yes, life goes on. But you are never far away.
Springtime has dawdled this year, taking its sweet time getting here. Those of us who live in the Northeast have learned patience with the seasons—those who haven’t must contend with their constant carping (that does nothing to speed along seasonal change). At the very least, they’re always going to be disappointed. I’ve learned that life can be disappointing. Grief and loss are excellent instructors.
Spring is also a time of year that reminds me of all the previous beginnings of baseball dating back to the time when I was probably five or six and learning that baseball seasons all have starting points. These always correspond with spring’s arrival.
These (spring) memories are never far away.
Mark was a son-come-true for a baseball-loving dad like me. He never disappointed me, not once from when he first tentatively gripped a bat to the afternoon in Appleton, Wisconsin, after his Wheaton teammates battled but lost in the final game of that spring’s Division III College World Series. That was 2006, 12 springs ago. On that day in May, just prior to graduation, I watched him walk out of and away from his baseball chapter. Writing, poetry, an MFA, and all sorts of other things were waiting for him, like walking across the country, once and then, one more time.
Most days, I’m okay as long as I’m busy writing (although writing intensely about the memories you’ve left me with is never easy), or trying to figure out how to be successful selling insurance, or thinking about what I’m going to work on that night during my tutoring session. But you are never far away.
This morning, I tried to sit still again and not let my mind run in disparate directions. I’m up to five minutes now. Nothing compared to what you were able to do with your meditation, even when you were out walking each and every day—until you weren’t.
When my timer went off and I could open my eyes and give in to the busyness of the day, I paused and decided I’d read a few poems from the book I’m working my way through. It’s by a man named Zapruder. I wish we could talk about him.
Reading poetry always makes me think of you. I love the rhythm that comes from saying the words aloud. I can feel them in my mouth and on my lips when they pass.
You are never far away.