How are you doing?

As I sit here in “quarantine” struggling with many mental and emotional aspects, I’m wondering, “How are you doing right now?” Take a second to check in with yourself and ask that. Things became so overwhelming for me recently that I had to write it out and, in a few paragraphs, will share that experience with you in the hopes that you know that you are not alone. 

I’ve been struggling the past few weeks with what to write along with a lack of feeling inspired. All of this heavy, dark, anxious, and primarily manic energy present in the world has me sufficiently distracted. We can all admit this is a trying time, and it has been especially detrimental to my creative drive. Many of the articles I have posted the weeks prior have been some reconstitution of speeches that I’ve written in times past for a public speaking club in which I participate. 

I’m currently in the Northeast, attempting to ride out this viral pandemic and to also capitalize on fixing up the properties that have been left to me by my father. It’s been a strange and arduous time for me, mentally and emotionally. This place is littered with memories, emotional landmines if you will. It’s tough for me not to go more than a few hours without asking, “Dad, what were you thinking here?” and then becoming incredibly sad, because I know that I will never get an answer. Such is the nature of life and death.

Never-the-less, I was up on what we around here call “The Mountain” as depicted below. For the first time in many weeks, I became inspired to write something. I knew that it would be incredibly personal. Even as I’m writing this introduction, I’m fearful that you, my readers, won’t get much out of me, bearing my emotional and intellectual burdens plain to you. I attempt to encompass my entire world view at this time with a focus on what we know and what we don’t, not just the loss of my father. As dear old Dad said, “No risk, no reward.” So, here it goes. This post is an intimate account of my current struggles. Feel free to stop here, or read on, and if you are inspired, leave a comment below. 

I want to call this section an essay with the title “The Mountain.”

The Mountain

I pulled out the propane fire pit after a long day. We, humans, are peculiar in that we enjoy burning things just for the experience. My father was no different. He is the reason that I have this propane pit and the house with a porch that the burner sits on and a scenic view second to none. The home is perched atop a mountain in the northern part of the Northeast overlooking a lake and countless hectares of unadulterated woods with mountains and windmills vaguely visible in the distance. 

The Mountain

The view and the fire pit…

It’s curious how we humans gather material things. Many of these things serve a purpose from being a tool for a specific job to nostalgic trinkets that make us feel well. Whatever it might be, it’s interesting to think that we gather stuff for purposes, and once we are gone, so are those reasons. The people left behind stand with a basket of objects, shells of plans never completed. We are the ones left behind, wondering why.

The oddest part of all of this is that amidst a global pandemic, he, my father, is the reason that I can take shelter in a beautiful and remote setting. There is no hustle or bustle, no paved roads or electricity for miles. The drive up here is several miles of dirt road that turns into a snowmobile trail in the winter. There is a gate at the start of the property and then a private dirt road leading up to the pinnacle. The strangest of parts is that I would most likely not be in this remote location here now if he was.

My father was one of a kind. Quick to make you laugh and always looking for a deal. I know he tried his best and could only do what he knew. But in many ways, I feel that he sheltered me from who he was because of shame. So I’m not so sure that I was well aware of all of his intricate parts. Nominally, he was quiet and reserved until he started drinking. Then like any other drunk, it was life with liquid spunk. I place no blame here as from what I know; his life was as he put it, “the school of hard knocks.” He wanted my sister and myself not to have to face such adversity. 

Somewhere along the line, September 11, 2001, according to Mom, something broke inside of Dad. He lost a marble or two that day. From the sane road, he did stray. Life became tough, as he played on the bi-polar rough. Something was broken that psychologists tried to fix. They gave him elixirs, of which they were still working out the bugs (See “Mind Fixers: Psychiatry’s Troubled Search for the Biology of Mental Illness”). We don’t have to look too far to understand many of psychiatry, modern medicine, and the pharmaceutical industries failings. I will never know if he was just another one of its victims. 

My father is the reason that I am a reasonably well-formulated man. He gave me every opportunity in the world to succeed. In many ways, I have likely surpassed his wildest dreams. I’ve reached such a height that I think he saw me like a shooting star with himself a lowly earth dweller never to be a fraction of what I’ve grown to be. Perhaps in that dark shadowy place, he decided that he was not worthwhile and that he would rid the world of himself. This theory, I can never know for sure. 

Much has changed in the world since that fateful day late last July. The stock market has deflated, our economy is cracking if not crumbling slowly, and a viral pandemic is sweeping the globe. 

Many people are losing their lives, and as a result, others are left behind with a box of things, shells of plans left unfinished. Some of those people are left asking, why did this happen to me, the victim? While others, like myself, are grinding down the things that remain into a fine powder. This pulverized material, when combined with water, transform into cement (both physical and emotional). This paste-like substance is the glue that is necessary to rebuild—a trial and transformation by nothing less than fire. 

At this point, “The more things change, the more they remain the same,” a phrase coined by French writer Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr, comes to mind. It seems safe to say that there are more things that we do not know abound in the world than what we do. Change is inevitable and constant, and the level of not knowing is, well, unknown to us. I’m thinking it’s something like we are experiencing a great deal of change, turmoil, and unknown, but no more than usual, it’s just currently being pushed into our faces. 

So, amidst this crisis, I sit in the woods, alone and am left with the little that I know. These are the things that I’m reminded that I know: up here at “The Mountain” I have a haven to stay, for now; I lost my father who I love dearly; the time here is simultaneously borderline unbearable yet cathartic; I have a job that provides me a steady and for now a stable source of income regardless of whether I detest it or not; I am at least reasonably healthy by most measures of the field; I have family and friends who care for me deeply; the COVID-19 virus has changed the world permanently; this pandemic has and will continue to affect the poor to a disproportionate degree as do most extreme events in the world. 

I know there are things that I will never know, and some of those will be a constant and stark reminder of the nature of life itself. These are the things I will never know: how or why my father died; if it was by his hand, or made to look that way; what he meant to do with all of his stuff, all of his trinkets, yet I am left behind, expected to know what to do as the executor of the estate; the genesis of the COVID-19 virus, whether it is natural or man-made; how long or severe its impacts will be on our economy; where I will be in a month, year or decade from now; when I will die, but I know that I will, and that is sobering.

We now live in a world where few things, tools, or trinkets are being made. I am beyond grateful that my father created what he did both in terms of humans and estates (collections of things left behind). I am left with a great and vast opportunity if I so choose. As the deadwood of the world is burned off through horrific tragedy, we all face a challenge that can be interpreted as a threat or an opportunity. The choice is an individual one. However, like the perfect wave when surfing, if we do not paddle hard and fast for it, this opportunity like that wave will pass us by with indifference as is the way of the world.

Closing Thoughts

As we progress through an extraordinarily challenging time as a human race, it makes sense that we keep a few things in the forefront of our mind. We are social beings, and we need that connection. We are in a time where we are not getting that in-person interaction that we need. It makes sense this will go on as the economy “re-opens” with social distancing rules in place. It will be an even more considerable effort for us as humans to stay connected in a respectful and meaningful way, which provides us all the interaction that we need. Perhaps now is a more critical time than ever to remember that we have no idea what anyone else is going through. Everyone handles hardships and adversity differently. It makes sense that we cannot eliminate the suffering of others, but we can be there as a guiding light to show them how they can improve their own mental and emotional realities. That seems to me to be the highest calling of a human being, that appears to be love to me. Now, more than ever, it seems as though we need caring, compassionate, and loving actions as fear runs rampant.