These are the names I know by heart, whose telephone numbers are stored in the meat of my mind, whose images are not digital but mental. I know who they are and where they are and why they are there. When I triage my little black book and begin a new one, I will write their names and numbers first—mostly from memory going back as far as fifty years.
These are the Essential Friends. The Companions of a Lifetime. Those I can call in the middle of the night, anytime, anywhere. In sorrow or in joy. We know each other so well we need not identify ourselves—we know the sound of the voice on the phone from the first word. The conversation does not begin from scratch—it is ongoing. One special friend—a pianist—plays music as his way of greeting. I always know it’s him.
And now, as time takes its toll, these are the voices that will speak over graves in the end. We don’t know which voices will give whose eulogy, but we know we are keepers of each other’s history and witnesses to each other’s lives. We will be there, one way or another. And whoever has the last word will not leave out the joy of the laughter or the songs or the jokes.
The updating of my little black book goes slowly. I don’t mind. I review these names, connect them to memories, and get lost in nostalgia. The names that remain remind me that I am a rich and lucky man. And not nearly as alone as I sometimes fear that I am.
78
Brick
This is a note to accompany the gift of a brick to an old friend. It is not a poem—just a one-line-at-a time expression of grace.
Here is a common red brick,
Found on a small beach on Seattle’s Elliot Bay,
At 6:45 in the morning on the fifteenth day of July,
At the beginning of an elegant day in high summer.
Clear skies, calm sea, low tide, and sixty degrees.
A green Chinese cargo container ship coasted by,
outward bound for the deep blue sea.
This brick was half in and half out of the water,
covered and uncovered by the rising and falling of the tide.
The brick is made from iron-rich clay, eons old,
ground down and left behind by glaciers from Canada,
reclaimed from the earth, I know not how or where.
Mixed with water, molded, fired,
brought to a building site and placed in a wall,
where it steadfastly served its purpose for some long time,
until the building was demolished into rubble and
dumped on the waterfront as fill to make a park.
The working waves of the salt sea sorted out the brick,
leaving it for me to find and rescue.
I washed off the seaweed and sand,
and brought the brick home, where it has been sitting
on my desk, keeping me company, provoking my mind.
This brick is old and weathered, yet solid still.
It could be used again as the first brick in some new
construction.
Or employed, less nobly, as a doorstop.
Or perhaps it could serve as the First Stone
To throw at someone more guilty than I.
It might be seen as a unique and essential thing:
Made of earth and water and fire and stardust and time . . .
Perhaps containing spirits by now.
Could it speak, it would have great stories to tell.
Sometimes I imagine it to be the wrapping for an
Image of the Buddha.
An image to be freed
By the eye of a sculptor.
Someone with vision. Like you.
This brick is a small monument to possibility.
Compost waiting to be made useful by imagination.
The worthless that could become priceless.
I tell you all this, because
I was thinking about you when I found the brick.
And wishing you were there with me on that fine morning.
This brick has a history.
It has been through a lot.
As we have.
The brick is still strong and will last a long time.
As our friendship will.
I thought you might like to have it.
You, whose steadfastness always makes me say,
“You’re a real brick.”
79
How to Paddle
a Canoe . . . or a Life
There is a twelve-inch wooden ruler in the top drawer of my desk. The ruler has been mine since the first week in September 1947. The facts are certain because, in barely legible penciled letters on the back are these words: “Bobby Fulghum, Fifth Grade, Sanger Avenue Elementary School.”
The ruler is one of those rare artifacts that have survived the triage of my possessions over sixty years. It remains as useful now as it was then. And it reminds me now of the delicious childhood pleasure of shopping for school supplies before classes began each September.
The right tools always promised a fine school year. Yellow pencils, lined notebook paper and ring binder, pencil sharpener, eraser, books, and workbooks. And brown paper covers to be carefully folded around those books. And a new metal lunch box.
Equipped. Ready. Confident.
Alas, along with the supplies came the annual review of my report cards from the previous year. My father’s job. The “You-could-do-better” talk. And by fifth grade it was clear that doing better involved mathematics.
Not so confident.
Somewhere along the way of my early years in school the fog of number phobia had risen in the swampy edges of my mind. The multiplying and dividing of fractions seemed more a matter of faith than fact, and while I had learned to fake it, I could not really do it. Too proud to admit incompetence, I promised to do better. I meant to do better. But I never did.
Now I know that if I had only asked for help, a very little more information and encouragement would have filled what has ever after been a permanent pothole in my self-image.
Math inadequacy wasn’t really the problem.
An unwillingness to ask for help was.
This memory came to mind when I took a long walk on Labor Day afternoon out through the wetlands area in Seattle’s arboretum. I watched as canoes came from the rental dock across the channel to negotiate the entrance to the inner waterways. They had to pass under the small bridge on which I was standing. Most of the canoes carried a family—mother in the bow, children amidships, and father in the stern. As the first canoe approached, I sensed calamity.
The boaters’ incompetence was obvious. Instead of forging ahead in a straight line, the canoe made long erratic zigzags as the paddlers frantically switched sides to compensate for the canoe’s bizarre behavior. By the time they reached the bridge, frustration had become anger, as mother and father both tried to take command of the helm of the canoe.
“Godammit, Martha, stop what you’re doing.”
“Godammit, Charley, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Yes I do. I did this at summer camp.”
“Well, you didn’t learn a thing.”
“Left!”
“No, right!”
“Left, Left, LEFT!”
“Don’t yell at me!”
“Then stop telling me what to do!”
“Backpaddle, backpaddle! BACKPADDLE!”
“Watch out!”
And they managed to hit the bridge piling dead on.
“You stupidsonofabitch!”
“Don’t call me that!”
“You are stupid! It’s all your fault!”
Their two little girls began bawling—they wanted to go home—now. And the parents, defeated, sat fuming, sloshing back and forth in the gentle waves of the lake on a lovely, sunny Labor Day, as other family canoes-in-crisis begin piling up behind them, even banging into them.
Happy holiday.
Meanwhile, two other canoes came swiftly across the channel and passed skillfully under the bridge. A third slowed and asked the demoralized flotilla
if they needed any help.
“Oh, no. Oh, no, we’ll get the hang of it.”
Even I, an experienced canoeist, offered advice.
“Oh, no. Oh, no. We’ll be just fine.”
If they had only been willing to ask me, such a small amount of information would have made such a big difference. I would have said:
“The bow paddler is only an engine, paddling straight ahead.
The stern paddler is the captain and makes all decisions in simple terms: Paddle, stop paddling, switch sides, back paddle.
The stern controls direction by paddling with a J-stroke—back and out—or using the paddle as a rudder.
The passengers sit still in the middle.
Nobody stands up. That’s it. Why do it the hard way?”
Ask somebody? Ha! Never!
Today I am about to go out and repair my outboard motor. I know who knows how to do it. But I’m as smart as he is. Right. I can do it myself. Right. How hard can this be? Right. Ask somebody? Ha! Never!
But his motor works. Mine does not.
(Pause.)
The voice of my father echoes out of the backroom of my mind—the old mantra: “Could do better.” So, bygod, I will go down the dock and talk to my neighborly expert. Finally admitting ignorance, I may finally learn something useful. This could establish a trend! This could be my year to finally do better! And who knows? Maybe the outboard motor genius could teach me about dividing fractions while he’s at it. I’ll ask.
When the student is finally ready, the teacher appears.
80
Blessing
In Switzerland there is a city. Geneva. A river flows through it. In that river is an island. On that island is a restaurant. And in that restaurant is a man. Me. Looking out a window at a stormy day. The eleventh day of October in 2006.
Outside, tall plane trees are being thrashed by a blustery wind. Their dry yellow leaves are launched out onto the Rhone River as it races by on its way to the sea at Marseilles. The leaves float like a brave regatta of tiny sailboats, floating and whirling in unison. The rain fills them, sinking them into the current of the river.
Evanescence is the word that comes to mind—the inevitable brevity of the beauty in life. If I were Japanese, I would write a haiku about this moment.
________
In the room where I stand are three long tables, well set for a fine lunch. White linen, crystal glasses, silverware, and roses. Just sitting down together are thirty people gathered for a meal before attending an afternoon awards ceremony to honor two defenders of human rights.
As the guests settle into place, I consider them.
There, at that table, is Arnold Tsunga, a black African lawyer from Zimbabwe who gave up his private life and practice to work for those who are wrongly arrested, tortured, and imprisoned. He himself was beaten and tortured. He will be honored today.
And there, at that table is Akbar Ganji, a journalist from Iran, who was arrested and tortured and imprisoned for daring to speak his mind and criticize his government. He will be honored today.
Sitting around them are friends, colleagues, and fellow activists. There, a woman from the International Red Cross; there, a man from the United Nations High Commission for Refugees; there a woman from Amnesty International; here, a man who has worked in nine countries for five agencies committed to helping those who cannot help themselves.
My eye moves on from face to face, recognizing those who have made it their life’s work to defend human rights, and to work for justice and peace in the world, at the sacrifice of their own wellbeing. If you passed them in the streets of Geneva, you would not know. If you could see into their hearts and minds you would never forget the fire that is there.
It’s so very important to know that such people are real. They exist.
They are part of our world.
My thoughts are interrupted by the master of ceremonies, calling my name, saying that, since I am an ordained minister, I will offer a blessing for the meal. In deference to universal religious custom, the guests begin to bow their heads.
“Wait,” I say.
“This blessing does not require you to close your eyes or bow your heads. I ask that you keep your eyes open, your heads up.
Listen.
The finest blessing a meal can have is great companionship.
Look around this room. Take notice of those who sit with you.
Look around you. Look at these men and women. Consider who they are, what they have done, and what they stand for.
Consider that you are not alone on your Way in the world.
Consider that you have the honor to break bread with such as these.
Look.
And know that this meal and each of us is abundantly blessed.
Amen.”
I pass this blessing on to you. That you, too, may know that, despite the evanescence of life, such people are still hard at work in the world. You may even be one of them.
I pass this blessing on to you. That you, too, may keep your eyes open and your head up. That you, too, may see and know and act. That you, too, may bless and be blessed.
81
The Meaning of Life
This essay was written many years ago, and first appeared in my second book. In time I came to live where the story began, in close contact with the man the story belongs to. With better information the essay has been revised for accuracy. The spirit of the story of the mirror remains unchanged and bears repeating. Though set in Crete, it’s about a universal premise.
“Are there any questions?”
A standard offer at the end of lectures and long meetings.
The ritual gesture is meant to indicate openness on the part of the speaker, but if in fact you do ask a question, both the speaker and the audience will probably give you drop-dead looks. Still, there always seems to be some earnest dimwit who has a question. And the speaker usually answers—repeating most of what he has already said.
When there actually is some time left and there is silence in response to the invitation, I often ask the most important question of all:
“What is the meaning of life?”
What? Why? Well, you never know—somebody may have a good answer, and I’d really hate to miss it, because I was too socially inhibited to ask. Once, and only once, I got a serious answer to my question.
An answer that is with me still.
First, I must tell you where this happened, because the place has a power of its own. Near the village of Kolymbari, on a rocky bay of the island of Crete, stands a Greek Orthodox monastery. Alongside it, on land donated by the monastery, is an institute dedicated to human understanding and peace, with a special mission to achieve rapprochement between Germans and Cretans. An improbable task, given the bitter residue of World War II.
This site is important, because it overlooks the small airstrip at Maleme across the bay where Nazi paratroopers invaded Crete. During the invasion they were attacked by ordinary Cretans with antique guns, kitchen knives, pitchforks, and hay scythes. The German retribution was terrible. The populations of whole villages were lined up and shot for assaulting Hitler’s finest troops. High above the institute is a memorial with a single cross marking the mass grave of young Greek men killed in the fight around the monastery. In all the surrounding villages there are graves of those men and women and children who died fighting the Germans. Not soldiers—citizens. Every village square has its monument to those who died.
And across the bay, on the hill above the airstrip, is the regimented burial ground of the Nazi paratroopers. The memorials are so placed that all might see and never forget. Hate was the only weapon the Cretans had at the end, and it was a weapon many vowed never to give up. Never. Ever.
Against this heavy curtain of history, in this place where the stone of hatred is hard and thick, the existence of an institute devoted to healing the wounds of war is a fragile paradox. The Orthodox Academy of Crete.
How has it come to be here?
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The answer is a man. Alexander Papaderos.
A doctor of philosophy, teacher, politician, citizen of the world, but a son of this soil. After the war he went to Germany for his graduate education. He came to believe that the Germans and the Cretans had much to give one another—much to learn from one another. Moreover, they had an example to set. If they could forgive each other and construct a creative relationship, then any people could.
To make a fine story short, with the support of the legendary Bishop Ireinaios, Papaderos succeeded. The institute became a reality—a conference ground on the site of horror—and it did indeed become a source of productive interaction between the two countries. Books could be written on the dreams that were realized by what people gave to people in this place. Now, from all over the world, groups come to address conflict and to exchange the ideas that bring people together instead of dividing them.
Alexander Papaderos: One look at him and you understood—saw his strength and intensity. Energy, physical power, courage, intelligence, passion, and vivacity radiated from his person. And to speak to him, to shake his hand, to be in a room with him when he spoke, was to experience his extraordinary humanity. Few men live up to their reputations when you get close. Alexander Papaderos was an exception.
________
At the last session on the last morning of a two-week seminar on Greek culture, led by intellectuals and experts in their fields who were recruited by Papaderos from across Greece, he rose from his chair at the back of the room and walked to the front, where he stood in the bright Greek sunlight of an open window and looked out. He turned. And made the ritual gesture: “Are there any questions?”
Silence. These two weeks had generated enough questions for a lifetime, but for now there was only mute stillness.
“No questions?” Papaderos swept the room with his eyes.
What On Earth Have I Done? Page 16