Sunday, August 5
Homeplace to Duluth
2 hours, 15 minutes by bus
Incalculable emotional hurdles
About 3:00 in the morning I awaken to a scuffling noise. Eventually my brain focuses enough to realize that something is in the cabin. My flashlight illuminates a small mouse, stuck between the outer and inner bags of some trail mix that I had carelessly left on the floor. I get out of bed, open the screen door, and drop the little fellow outside. It hadn't eaten through the inner bag, so I tie things up and hang the food from the springs of the top bunk.
As I attempt to get back to sleep, I realize that this group offers me a unique opportunity to resolve my father's death, which occurred in September 1988. His death had not saddened me, in fact I had felt relieved, and I had some serious internal conflicts that needed to be settled. I had been unable to talk about these feelings even with my own wife. Perhaps I could work through them if I shared my dilemma with this group of five people who had become so close to me during the past week.
After we woke and got dressed the next morning, I started.
"I've got something that I need to talk to you about. Two of the hardest things for me to do are to ask for help, and to accept things from other people. I need your help."
"Some of you may remember that at one time I said my father was an alcoholic. He joined Alcoholics Anonymous about fifteen years before his death, but he never really changed his behavior; he was still an alcoholic, even he wasn't drinking any more. My father died two years ago. He died a terrible death, diabetic, blind, and suffering from Parkinson's disease. Around Memorial Day of 1988 he suffered a massive stroke that left him unconscious and on a respirator. Finally in September he died. I felt no grief at the time. If anything, I was relieved that his life was finally over. What I need to know from you is -- is this OK?"
Everybody comes forward to help. I am surprised to find that all the women have come from family or married situations in which alcohol or drugs had been involved. Judy had experienced similar feelings after the death of one of her parents. Only Bill seemed to have a "normal" background. No wonder the group had seemed to split five and one.
Riding the emotional resonance of the moment, I realized that one of the things that had bothered me most before going on this course had been a brief conversation with my daughter. We had had an argument the night before I left Atlanta, and later that evening she had told me -- calmly, and without anger -- that she didn't love me. She allowed as how she liked me, but that she loved her mother, and doubted that she could ever love me in the same way.
I continued, "As a kid, when I saw contests on TV about how you could write in and in fifty words or less describe why you had the best dad in the world, I never felt any desire to do so. Recently, my daughter told me she didn't love me, and it just sent a dagger of ice into my heart."
A group of strangers has just helped me to let go of my greatest fear in the world. I don't want to die unloved like my father. Like the final letting go on the ropes course, my fear is behind me, and out in the open it is no longer so terrifying.
After
breakfast we put our bags on the bus and go through the koosh ball
exercise again. The rules are to pass the koosh ball from one to
another in the same order that we had used a week previously. We
start by rearranging ourselves physically so that we can pass
directly to the next person without having to think about order. Our
best time is around four seconds, only fractionally faster than
before. Next, we realize that we don't have to say each others'
names; we know each others' names. Silently, we shave another half
second off our time. Finally, Rogene passes on a suggestion made by a
student in another course. We cup our hands in a tight circle. Tossed
firmly, the ball rolls quickly around the closed circle of hands,
touching each one in sequence. One second. Done.
We board the bus, wave goodbye to Kate and Rogene, and start the two hour ride back to the "real" world. Kathy, Judy, and Nancy are pretty talkative. Cheri is trying to conserve energy for the drive back to Redwing. Bill and I are mostly silent.
Flight schedules make it impossible for everyone to go into Duluth for brunch at Grandma's, a traditional coming out activity for VOBS graduates. Instead, we decide to keep the group together until the very last moment, with a second breakfast at the Duluth airport cafe.
The food is the best I've ever had in an airport restaurant. I wolf down a large platter of steak, eggs, and home fries. We sit around talking, trying to figure how we are going to integrate this experience into our everyday lives. Bill picks up the tab for Kathy's meal, which leads to another emotional moment. Like me, she finds it hard to accept a gift from someone. Finally, flight times nearing, we circle up for one last time, then break and have our last hugs. True to form, Bill and I shake hands.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' we are now not that strength which in the old days moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; one equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.Alfred Lord Tennyson, Ulysses
Epilogue
Cheri drove me from the airport to the Duluth Greyhound terminal. We stopped at the first stop sign after leaving the airport and couldn't figure what to do next until a driver behind us honked his horn. I guess we were waiting for the stop sign to turn green.
My wife's relatives picked me up in Duluth, and took me back to Superior, where I had a chance to work on my notes, do some laundry, and try to settle down. Like a canoe with its keel on a rock, I was both elevated above my surroundings and tipsy. Most of the day I felt myself swinging from wild laughter to tears.
I turned on the car radio and was greeted with Bach's Musical Offering. This austere composition soothed me, reminding me of the good things in the other world, the world I have to live in every day. The news of Iraq's invasion of Kuwait, threatening the oil fields of the western shore of the Gulf, where I had lived for more than five years, provided a less welcome reminder of the other world.
That night I awoke about 2:00 a.m., confused about where I was. I reached out with my left arm and touched a curtain, which felt like mosquito netting. Was I on the trail again? Where? Where am I? This happened again Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights, each time with a little less intensity.
The long drive -- 1500 miles -- back to Atlanta was my solo in many ways. I can put the driving part of my mind into a little corner, where it observes what is happening and maintains a safe lookout. With nobody to talk to for twelve hours at a time, I found driving a good way to look back on the trip. I was still flip flopping between laughter and tears, occasionally punctuated by loud shouts of joy, all the way through Michigan's Upper Peninsula. By the time I reached Atlanta, I had achieved relative stability. It's wonderful to be crazy for a little while, but it's hard to live that way for the rest of your life.
Thanks to all of you for making my second Outward Bound course as meaningful as my first. On July 29th I would have never believed it would be possible.
It took me less than a week in August to set down this narrative, then I started to get sucked back into the routine of "normal" life. I resumed work on the manuscript more than a year later. I hope you all enjoy it.
We've not seen each other now for a long time. Each day at head of stream, I remember us there arm in arm. Arm in arm, at one we were. And memory renews the pain of sudden goodbye. If today memory is thus, how deep was feeling then.Wang Woi
It's not over until it's over.A.A. Milne Winnie the Pooh
