The Power of Silliness

I am becoming an old person.  The years are stacking up.  I suppose retirement does that by creating an awareness that the times are changing and there is nothing that can change that.  Life is serious and that seriousness is being seen and experienced through younger and fresher eyes.  Generations experience life differently.  This transition into the realm of elderliness becomes more obvious with each passing day.  I and my generation are now becoming categories in Trivial Pursuit and the “do you remember” questions asked at the end of the nightly news.  I am becoming a relic . . . and old relic at that. 

This is not anything that has been pointed out by the masses.  We, there are those smart aleck people who relish the old age putdowns when they have the chance . . . but for the most part it is more subtle.  When going out to play with the grandchildren, I hear my children say, “Be careful with Papa.”  A reminder that Papa is getting older, slower, and more breakable.  Wouldn’t want to break Papa!  “You, okay?” is another subtle reminder I get whenever I moan or groan with any movement I make.  Most of the time I am just moaning and groaning because it is expected at my age and I do not want to disappoint.  Gotta play the part whether there is a reason for the moaning or groaning.  The children are gracious in their subtle hints at my movement into being old.

 

It is not like I am not aware of this transition into old age.  I may be old, but I get the hints.  The biggest culprit is my body.  It seems that arthritis and its buddy rheumatoid like to play tag with the joints and muscles in my hands daily.  Sometimes they even expand their playfulness and wander up my arms to camp out in my elbows.  Stamina isn’t what it used to be.  The heart and lungs rebel more than they used to.  They tend to send reminders to slow down and don’t overdo it.  The heart is especially adamant in letting me know that if it goes, so goes everything else.  Eyesight is fading . . . we now have a drive in size television.  Hearing is following closely . . . thank goodness the big screen television comes with closed captioning.  I’m not complaining about the hearing going as I am discovering that a lot of what people want to tell me really doesn’t matter to me.  Memory is staking a claim in the race to physical disintegration of my body.  I catch myself often forgetting little things here and there.  Which has actually been wonderful as it has provided multiple epiphanies once I remember what I forget.  A whole lot of “oh, yeah” moments.

 

So, yes, I am joining the ranks of the elderly.  I am assuming my place in the geriatric choir where we sing lots of songs from the 1970s—Beatles, Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, CSNY—instead of the hymns of our parents.  I am old, but I ain’t dead yet.  Nope, I’m experiencing a “Merlin”.

 

In T.H. White’s Arthurian legend, The Once and Future King, the child Arthur is taught and mentored by the old wizard Merlin. As the story begins Merlin has reached the peak of his age and has begun his descent down the mountain of age.  As the child Arthur grows older each year, Merlin grows younger—he lives backwards, starting as an old man and aging toward infancy.  I have entered the “Merlin” stage of my life . . . I regress.

 

What a wonderful gift it has been to backtrack and rediscover the beauty and joy of life that have been repressed by the duties, responsibilities, and expectations of adulthood.  There is much to re-learn, re-experience, and re-grasp.  Too often I forget this gift . . . this regression.  Yet there are those who remind me.  Where my children focus on my journey of aging, my grandchildren see the other side.  They see the gift of my youth shining through the wrinkles and cracks of old age.  They recognize the “child” in me and encourage that “child” to come out and play.  After spending a week with two of my visiting grandchildren it is more obvious that the “child” in me is emerging.

 

And the “child” rejoices.

 

The greatest gift revealed from my childhood has been silliness.  Garrison Keillor recently wrote in his weekly column: “Silliness is essential to human life, it’s proof that life can be joyful, we need not die from indifference.”  As my grandchildren have told me many times, “Papa, you are silly.”

 

They are right.  I am silly.  A week with my grandchildren amplified the silliness often hidden from the judgmental eyes of adults in my life.  From discovering rocks and their hidden identities waiting to be released with a little paint.  Drawing pictures with chalk releasing a world others cannot see on the sidewalk before them.  Making joyful and beautiful music with a kazoo that others claim is noise.  Drawing pirates, Easter bunnies, flowers, caterpillars, and butterflies on windows with markers.  Basking in popsicles.  Waging battles against unseen foes with all the sound effects of the old Batman series . . . boom, bam, wham, and POW!  Wearing two different colored socks.  Blowing bubbles in the milk glass.  Constantly giggling, laughing . . . and doing it some more . . . at really bad jokes, puns, and riddles.  Teasing.  A whole lot of silliness.

 

And it was joyful!  A celebration of life.  A wonderful dance of love . . . and if you have ever seen me dance, you’d know silliness.  For a while nothing else mattered.  There wasn’t the drama of a crazy orange person in the White House.  No worries about inflation and rising gas prices.  No thoughts about war and injustice.  No pictures of meanness or cruelty.  No fussing and fighting.  No darkness blocking the sun. Only blissfulness and joy of embracing the silliness of childhood and life . . . and it was good.  For this reminder I am thankful.

 

I may be seen as old and elderly by the world around me, but I regress.  As I regress, the “child” I once was with all the dreams and hope that youth can hold comes tumbling towards me.  It is a gift . . . a wondrous, beautiful gift of life that reminds me that I am loved and cared for.  I may be getting old, but I am not dead or forgotten.  Nope, I’m still here and I am . . . silly.  Silly and enjoying life.  And it is good . . . really good.

 

Life is pretty dark and tough right now.  We are all experiencing our age in these difficult times.  It is frustrating and scary.  Dark.  Because of this I encourage you to pause, find a child, and spend some time getting silly.  It is good for the soul.  It will help you to see and remind you that life is good . . . life is beautiful . . . that it is joyful.  Silliness reveals what the eyes cannot see but what we need to see.  As Johnny Nash once sang:

 

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone

I can see all obstacles in my way

Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind

 

It’s gonna be a bright, bright

Sun-shiny day

It’s gonna be a bright, bright

Sun-shiny day

 

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone

All the bad feelings have disappeared

Here is the rainbow I’ve been prayin’ for

 

It’s gonna be a bright, bright

Sun-shiny day

 

Look all around, there’s nothin’ but blue skies

Look straight ahead, nothin’ but blue skies

 

The power of silliness . . . the power of growing old.

 

A Life of Migration

Here in Montana, we live in a land of migration.  For centuries the critters that inhabit this land have migrated in search of sustenance and safety in the vast landscape of Big Sky Country.  They gather to survive the winter before dispersing in the warmth and growth of spring and summer.  The avian population comes and goes in migratory routes in all directions seeking the warmth and hospitality of warmer climates.  Historically the indigenous, the Native Americans, moved back and forth across the land seeking the animal herds that would sustain them—winter and summer hunting grounds.  They followed the herds.  Even today there is movement among the people as “snowbirds” head south seeking refuge from the harsh winter months.  Migration is intricately woven into the identity and fabric of Montana. 

For the past couple of weeks, I have watched the return of our avian friends as they re-introduce themselves to the usual suspects who refuse to ever leave.  There are several birds that mark the transition and arrival of spring in our area of Montana.  The melodic song of the Red-winged Blackbird is always a certain announcement of spring.  The cooing sound of Sandhill Cranes feeding in the fields hastens the welcome of spring.  Varieties of waterfowl not seen except for spring and summer fill the waterways with a cacophony of sound.  Ospreys are evicting brash Canada Geese our of their lofty nests.  The Mountain Bluebirds are back in their splendid blue gracing the fields.  The migration is on and the birds have bugled their arrival.

 

Bears have already been seen as awakening from their winter hibernation.  Now they move across the landscape seeking sustenance after a long winter nap.  The lek are moving from their winter grounds to summer grazing separating themselves into smaller bands—male and female, until the return of the Rut . . . until the mating season comes in the fall.  The moos are on the move.  Life and critters are on the move.

 

If has been said that “migration is the movement of people, animals, or organisms from one place, region, or country to another, typically to settle, live, or work, or find better seasonal living conditions.  It can be temporary or permanent.”  So, that is the case for critters.  It is nothing new for them.  It is in their biological make-up.  It is who they are.  It comes with the changing seasons.

 

Someone else described it: “Migration is the movement of people away from their usual place of residence to a new place of residence.”  I appreciate this understanding of migration as it has the potential to convey so much more than the usual understanding of migration.  With this there is an opening beyond movement from one physical place to another.  There is an invitation to consider other movements such as psychological and spiritual movement.  As we move from place to place physically, we also move psychologically and spiritually.  Thus, we are all migratory sojourners.

 

The idea of migration has been waltzing around my brain for several weeks now as I have been watching the movement and return of the birds and critters in our area.  It is always a fascinating spectacle to witness . . . practically magical.  But the notion of movement from the usual residence to a new place of residence revealed to me the fact that I am a creature of migration.  I have spent a lifetime migrating . . . physically, psychologically, and spiritually.  While in the midst of this migration or movement it has been difficult to see, now with perfect 20/20 hindsight . . . it is revealed.

 

I get the feeling that migration comes about in different ways.  It can be ingrained in the fabric of who one is . . . genetic, like animals and birds.  It can be based on needs and choices as the earliest inhabitants of this land experienced . . . the following of the food sources.  It can be forced upon in circumstances than necessitate movement . . . things like war, drought, persecution, and so much more.  It can be strictly by choice . . . movement towards something bigger and better than what one has.  Migration comes in many shapes, forms, and sizes.

 

Migration in my life spans the spectrum.  As a child of a career military parent my siblings and I experienced constant movement from base to base, communities, and schools as our father was transferred.  Every couple of years we packed up and moved around the country—Massachusetts, the District of Columbia, Arizona, Georgia, Colorado, Nebraska, Panama, Maryland, Gaum, and back to Maryland.  All in the span of 20 years.  Changes in scenery, cultures, and societies.  Constant change and adaptation.

 

After awhile one gets used to it . . . the constant movement and change.  Another day, another new place.  When I got the chance, I flew the coop.  I went to college and ended up in Nebraska . . . 1,500 miles from where I graduated high school.  I started my major to be a Special Education teacher and ended it with a bachelor’s degree in Speech Pathology and a heavy minor of Special Education.  All forms of migration in a span of four years.  Then I dumped it all, moved to Kentucky to attend seminary and the pursuit of the pastoral life.  I got married, graduated, was ordained, and moved to southern Indiana across the river from Louisville, Kentucky.  All in three years.  Again, migration.

 

Migrated to parenthood while in the first parish in the first for two years.  Then a return trip to Nebraska where I graduated college to pastor a congregation there.  Six years later and three more children, there was a move to another location in Nebraska where my wife received a call to minister.  A switch to another denomination and receiving dual standing in both denominations.  Learned one of our children has severe epilepsy –now we were parents of a child with a severe disability.  I went back to grad school earning a master’s degree in mental health counseling . . . a slight shift and addition in careers.  It was a period of transition and migration on many levels.

 

Then it was off to Iowa and new parishes.  Changes in scenery and cultures.  New ways of understanding and doing things.  Learned that our youngest had a learning disability.  Migration once again.  After a few years it was back to Nebraska, back to the community and congregation we had left before moving to Iowa.  There were years of commuting two hours as my wife and I served in two different communities in different time zones while still being in Nebraska.  Again, the dual standing of serving a variety of congregational settings.  Lots of miles . . . lots of change.  A year after our youngest graduated we moved again.

 

Since my childhood I have always been fascinated with Montana.  One reason was because it reminded me of the years I spent in Colorado as a child.  The other was because there are less than six people per square mile.  An introvert’s wildest dream!  We moved to Montana when there were two congregations near each other needing pastors.  We packed up our stuff, threw the pets in the vehicles, and headed off to Big Sky Country.  Another migration.  We now have been in the same place—location and home—for nearly 18 years.  All of our children, their families, and grandchildren live in Montana too.

 

I have experienced a lot of physical migration in my lifetime and there may yet be more, but I am really happy where I am.  Psychologically there have been many migrations from being single and independent to married and reliant upon another . . . parenthood . . . parenthood with children having disabilities . . . shifts in callings, employment, and education . . . movement from parenthood to being a grandparent.  Over the span of my life, I have moved psychologically over the landscape with each residency adding shape and perspective to who I am and where I am at today.  Migration—chosen, unchosen, forced, or accidental, has been integral to my growth as a person.

 

Spiritually . . . well, it has been a constant migration . . . a constant movement . . . a journey.  From a childhood of seeking an understanding of God and a place to belong to an adolescence of exploring my place in the world.  I have had a spiritual journey.  A deep dive into theology and organized religion to a “buy in” to the “church”, I have sought understanding . . . sought an anchor.  To disillusionment and disdain for organized religion . . . I continue to search and grow, change, and realize the great mystery and vastness that is the Holy . . . that is God.  I have gone from point to point . . . beliefs, teachings, doctrines, and dogma . . . faith communities . . . to the solitude of the moment.  Constant migration. Spiritually . . . migration.

 

That is the thing about migration . . . we all do it throughout our lives if we are living, growing individuals.  We are constantly changing, learning, and growing.  We are movement.  With that perfect 20/20 hindsight we can see it through thoughtful reflection and discernment.  We are all migrants of one sort or another.  None of us is the same as we were when the journey began.

 

Three months into retirement I am aware of another migration upon me.  Thus far I would not say that it has been easy.  A few health issues have slowed me down. Hernia repair surgery and a case of shingles can muddy the waters.  Still, the migration is taking place no matter how slowly I embrace it.  I’m still trying to figure it all out.  Though not moving anywhere physically, nothing seems the same.  Routine is gone.  Lots of freedom.  Lots of time.  Not quite sure what to do with it all.  Needing to figure out its purpose . . . its meaning.  One thing is certain, there is movement.  Where I was three months ago is not where I am residing today psychologically or spiritually.  No, there is migration happening . . .

 

. . . that’s what it is.  And it has been on my mind lately.  I guess I could blame it on the critters, but I think it has been lurking around the shadows of my mind for a while.  The actual reality has brought it to the forefront and forced the issue.  As the migration of nature unfolds around me, I am aware of the changes taking place within me and my life.  The traveling shoes are upon my feet.  I do not know where they lead, but the journey has begun.  I’m on the move.  The migration has commenced. For myself and all of us journeying . . . migrating physically, psychologically, or spiritually . . . I have a simple prayer: “Traveling mercies.”  May our journeys be blessings . . . ah, migration . . . the joy of being alive!