Another excerpt from A Death in Retrospect …

An excerpt from Part One of my work in progress. The prologue can be read on my Web site.

Part One: Old Age

“All the best sands of my life are somehow getting into the wrong end of the hourglass. If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to do so, would I?”

—Thomas Bailey Aldrich

“As in the first words?” I said when the Other’s patience won out over my own (the Other might’ve kept me waiting a minute or a millennium for all I knew), although in truth I didn’t utter the words as much as think them; not so much a telepathy as I understood it, but an exchange of thoughts as energy.

“I am your higher self,” the Other said.

“My soul?”

“If it pleases you to think of me as such. You and I are one, and we are one with creation.”

“I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together,” I said. The Other seemed to find my Beatle-esque evaluation humorous, or so I read in the change in frequency of its energy.

“Quite right,” it said, the vibration of its communication feeling oddly Cockney to my life force; then, with a more familiar Midwestern twang, it added, “We are connected, you and I, through a channel, as I am connected to the Creator. And so, so are you.”

“God?”

“God, yes, but not as you, in life, perceived him.”

“Angry, vengeful, demanding, white robe, long just as white beard and flowing hair.”

“A deity man created in his own image.”

“An image we perhaps need, to keep us in line. Yet over the years man certainly seems to have pushed the envelope with an absent God, like a teen thinking they can pull the wool over their parent’s eyes. Parents more concerned with their careers than with their children.”

The Other, apparently forgoing judgment, said nothing; so I ventured: “Where am I and how long have I been here?”

“You are beyond infinity, a place where time has no meaning.”

I expressed confusion.

“Your last life ended, as you once measured time, many millennia ago.”

“Why the wait? What took you so long to make your presence known to me?”

The Other chuckled and the vibration revealed much to me.

“I was given a timeout?” I asked in disbelief.

“You needed time to reflect, but it was you who took so long. You are, in death, nearly as obstinate—mulish—as you were in life. It was when you concluded that life had won you little recompense in death that I thought you might be open to discussion.”

“My last life?” I asked, going back several lines in our exchange. “I’ve lived others?”

“Many. You are, as am I, or more accurately as are we, immortal.”

As I pondered this the Other continued: “The world is, from the perspective you once knew it, in another ice age. Man as the dominant species is nearly extinct, waiting, as the Neanderthals once did, for another cycle of warmth. When you return, you will perhaps return to the previous cycle, the one from whence you just came, or the one still to come.”

“So we’re time travelers?” I said.

“Not in the Jules Verne sense, no. But we are not bound by time in the sense your corporeal self once was.”

In that moment I understood, without really understanding the how, that past, present and future all existed as one moment, except, apparently, in this place that was “beyond infinity.”

“So I can return as Joan of Arc, a black slave prior to the Civil War, George W. Bush or even Ty Cobb?”

I felt the Other acquiesce.

“And because we are, as you say, beyond infinity, I can return to a future not yet lived?”

“The choice is ours—yours and mine.”

“But do I have to? Return?”

“You are the essence of what you once were—pure energy. The teacup that once was your body was broken when you died, but your life’s quintessence—the tea so to speak—remains. Your energy will be sent back into the lifecycle to exist in another physical form.”

“Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

While my other self considered this, I furthered my argument: “Life is futile.”

“Life is experience.”

“But why would I wish to return?” I asked.

“It is essential to the Creator, who desires to experience his own existence through his creation, both the good as well as the not so good.”

“You mean the evil.”

“Evil is a creation of man, the result of a lack of love.”

“Still, what’s the point of it all?” I asked, feeling as if the Other were judging me.

“I am beyond judging you,” it said, reminding me that my thoughts were its thoughts. “We are one, and as one we shine or shame.”

I cringed.

“If I truly am immortal, have lived countless lives, what do I gain from returning to the lifecycle ignorant of my previous lives, to be burned at a stake, flogged for my skin color, hazed by teammates envious of my superior talent, reviled as the worst president ever to hold office?”

I recalled reading The Long Embrace, a biography of Raymond Chandler. Author of The Big Sleep, Chandler wrote of L.A. and California: The most of everything—

“The best of nothing,” the Other finished my thought for me. “You forget that I’m privy to every aspect of your life, as well as your every thought.”

“Then you know what Chandler knew: ‘When you constantly change a landscape, you erase the collective memory of a city.’ To force me to return without the collective memories of my previous lives is amoral.”

“Most are anxious to return.” To my disbelief, the Other continued: “To feel the rain on their face, to brave the cold breath of winter in order to appreciate warmth at a fire, to hear the clattering claws of a dog dancing on kitchen linoleum, to hear a child’s laughter, to love—”

“Love is at best transitory,” I argued. “When we find it, if we find it, it slips away, abandoning us when we least expect. If it finds us, we discover it’s not what we want.”

“Love is all there is. It is a choice.”

“Predicated on a feeling.”

“A feeling that was, for you, based on a visual image of body parts.”

I shrank away from the Other’s charge, although no judgment sounded in its tone; it simply stated the truth—not as he saw it, but simply the truth.

“What else do we have to go on, at least initially?” I said. “I was able to turn some heads, even after I turned fifty—until I got sick. At a subconscious level women look for physical signs that a man will be a good provider—broad shoulders, a powerful build—while in return men look for someone with a good childbearing body.” I was not to be untracked: “As for the feeling to which I refer, it often disappears when someone discovers you’re not who they thought you were, or worse, who they wanted you to be.”

If I’d had legs I’d be pacing; I didn’t, so my frustration betrayed itself in the brightness of my essence. I continued with my tirade: “God—the Creator, whatever—sticks us in a shell of flesh and blood where we can view the world from only one perspective, our own, and he expects us to be unselfish, to put the needs of others ahead of our own. Well I did that, more than once, with friends, employers and lovers. And each recipient was only too happy to take what I offered and give little in return. Until they tired of what I gave and then cast me away unwanted.”

“But you gave expecting in return, did you not?”

“Even God isn’t purely altruistic. He expects something from his creation, doesn’t he? Whether it’s to take a knee in deference to his glory or, as you claim, to allow him to experience reality through us, there’s a price to pay for our existence. So what if I expected something in return from the people in my life? It’s a sin to expect to be treated well in return for the good treatment you provide another? ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’ yes?”

The Other went silent; I felt something like trepidation fill the void between us, as if it didn’t know how to respond. Then, perhaps in an effort to change tacks, it said, “So you wish to know how returning to the lifecycle can be to your benefit without memories of your previous lives.”

“The memories I can do without,” I said. “I can live without the anger, frustration and shame. It’s some of the more valuable lessons that I’d like to take along with me. To be born with specific wisdoms—knowing certain things without having to attend the school of hard knocks.”

“Isn’t that analogous to cheating?”

“So what if it is if should it make the world a better place in which to live while providing the Creator a higher grade of experience? Wouldn’t that be more akin to the life to which Christ preached we should aspire?” I was trying to deflect, make it sound as if I had the benefit of the greater whole in mind in addition to the Creator; but the Other was silent and I knew my argument had left no impact.

Not knowing what else to say, I added, “All the more reason I’ve experienced enough living, thank you very much.”

“That is not for you to say.”

“So I have no say on the matter.”

“The choice is ours alone.”

“Yours and the Creator’s?”

I felt rather than saw the Other nod and I couldn’t help but feel something patronizing, a touch arrogant, even judgmental in the non-gesture. The Other ignored my exasperation—as in life I came to believe the god in whom I’d grown up believing ignored his creation—like a parent who thinks he knows what’s best for his children: Do as I say not as I do. Vegetables are good for you, I recall my father telling me through lips clenched around a cigarette. Sugar is not, he finished. I wanted to ask him, What about nicotine? But I was young and frightened of my father; yet when I turned 16 I smoked a few cigarettes, even managed to pound back a few beers. Looking back, that I never got caught somehow took some of the fun out it.

Privy to the energy that was my thoughts, the Other said: “Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants to see us happy.’”

It was an adage I’d often quoted in my younger, happier days. Before life beat me down.

“Ben also said that wisdom can be found in wine, freedom in beer; but in water you find only bacteria. God created water; man the former two.” When the Other remained silent, I added, “You don’t really believe that, do you, about beer and God wanting to see us happy?”

“You forget that I have a personal connection with the Creator.”

“So he’s an alkie and part of his twelve-step program is to make me go back but without any of the knowledge and wisdom I may have learned during my previous lives.”

The Other ignored my derision. “You will have a choice in gender and certain other aspects of your next incarnation.”

“Like a role-playing game?” I put forth. “I get to pick attributes like charisma, looks, constitution, luck, and strength?”

I sensed the Other’s amusement and I understood my analogy was spot on.

“I thought God had already experienced a little of life, when he sent his son to earth to be crucified.”

“A parable. God is at the center of the universe wherever he exists—as fauna, flora, as every molecule that composes his creation.”

“Even granite?”

“He exists in everything.”

“And he likes to suffer—or more accurately, like the boy who enjoys frying ants on a hot summer day with his magnifying glass, he likes to see us suffer.”

“He is not responsible for the suffering his creation wreaks upon itself.”

I sighed and shrugged nonexistent shoulders, like a war veteran with a phantom limb.

“I suppose I get it,” I said. “Even pain is preferable to living in a vacuum.”

As if it were already decided that I’d return to the lifecycle, the Other said, “Before you return I need to better understand your previous life.”

“You’re my higher self. You should already know everything you need to know.”

“I’d rather hear it from your perspective.”

Mother’s Day has been different for me these last 13 years, since Mom passed away. My inbox still fills this time of year with spam to “Don’t forget Mom.” Commercial.

I’ve written about Mom over the years—her battle with Parkinson’s disease, and she appears, in some form or another, in a lot of my fiction. My effort to keep her memory alive, and perhaps to find some reason for her suffering. Several readers have reached out to me, grateful to me for sharing with them her story. There is comfort in knowing someone shares your pain.

Mother’s Day has evolved for me since I was boy, when I hand-crafted cards for her, a heart-felt sentiment inside written in shaky block letters. When I got older it became a Hallmark day—flowers, brunch, a card with a heart-felt sentiment in a more elegant cursive.

My first Mother’s Day without her, two months after she passed away, was difficult; it was spent with Dad (who is now gone from me, too) and my sister. It made little sense for us to ignore the day. After brunch, while Dad gave me directions, I drove the three of us by the tiny apartment in which they lived for a time after they wed and before my sister was born. Sadly, the building, in a rundown neighborhood, was boarded up. Looking back, I now see it as a pictogram of the aging process. Heraclitus wrote: “All things flow, nothing abides.”

Each year since has gotten a little easier—several spent with a lady love who was herself a mother and whose mother still lived. But I always saved a moment for a thought of my own mother.

The lady love has moved on from me, but Mom is still a part of me. I know I’ve disappointed her in many ways; but I hope I’ve made her proud of me, if only in the trying. I’ve tried to live a good life and have, on occasion, failed. Yet we don’t have to let our failures mark us, the labels others place on us rule us. A man’s mettle in the face of adversity, his perseverance in the aftermath of disappointment, are better measures of who and what he is.

Each Mother’s Day I remember Mom in my own way and this year will be no different. I recently dug up an old photograph of her—sweet 16, a high school graduate and beautiful, I see in her eyes all the hopes and dreams of youth … destined to one day become my mother.

She who bore me, and now I bear her, her memory as well as her hopes and dreams.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Earlier this week I bought a pewter whiskey flask. I didn’t really need one (who really does?), but I’ve long wanted one, so when I saw one I liked at my favorite tobacconist I laid down my coin and left with it.

Today I took it to the mall to have it engraved with my initials so that when I go out with it I can announce to the world that it is indeed mine. Not that anyone really knows who I am. I left it for an hour at Things Remembered, got a coffee at the Starbucks kiosk and did a little window shopping, eventually parking my backside on a sofa in the mall to rest my dogs and people watch.

I’ve always been naturally inquisitive; shortly before my father passed away he told me that as a tot I could’ve been the poster child for a “But Why?” campaign. As a writer, I’ve parlayed that inquisitiveness with a talent for observation.

It wasn’t long before an interesting couple strolled past me. The woman may have been in her late 20s, her mate (with a thinning pate) in his early 30s. The woman pushed a stroller with an infant and had two toddlers to her right, while her husband held the hand of a fourth toddler. What first struck me was that he trailed his stroller pushing wife by three steps. Then I was struck by how tired this couple looked, although the woman bore a mien of contentment. By contrast, her husband looked, at best, overwhelmed, at worst, trapped by the responsibility of this brood, all under the age of six.

I wondered, amused for a moment, that the woman might’ve been fertile to a flaw—that she might become pregnant at the very thought of communing with her husband in love’s ultimate act. Then I wondered if either or both of them had gotten what they’d bargained for when they’d exchanged “I dos” at the altar. All of which left me to consider whether I’d gotten everything for which I’d ever bargained in my life.

At 53, I have much for which to be thankful: good health, a job in a struggling economy, heat, hot water, food on my table, a roof over my head, and enough money to occasionally buy something frivolous. One of my novels was also recently published and I’m expecting to receive my first royalty shortly. I’m happily immersed in another novel (my fifth), and I never seem at a loss for something about which to write, whether a novel, short fiction, an op-ed piece, sports or a memoir.

On the downside, I’m divorced, have no children, have had my heart broken more than once, and have inflicted upon a woman the same. Two lessons I’ve learned the result of these past relationships: one, that whatever lessons I learned from my own broken heart don’t apply to the next relationship; and two, that it feels no better being the dumper than it does being the dumpee. In other words, it feels no better to wrong another than it does being wronged.

So now I sit here, alone on a Saturday night smoking a good cigar and sipping Japanese whiskey—I’ll try anything once and this is one whiskey I’ll try only once—typing these words. As a writer, I’m constantly, as Robert Lamm wrote in 25 or 6 to 4, searching for something to say. Lamm’s lyrics are often misunderstood as being about drug use when in fact they are about a songwriter’s frustrations. They are lyrics to which I certainly can relate. But I’m also searching for other things: love and acceptance, the meaning of life, peace of mind, and spiritual awareness. I’m wise enough to understand that finding love risks another broken heart; while learning the meaning of life and achieving peace of mind and discovering spiritual awareness may come at the cost of my hunger for arranging words on a white screen.

I left the mall with my newly engraved whiskey flask wondering if I’d gotten what I’d bargained for in my life. I know one woman who would say I’ve gotten what I deserve. Certainly I’ve earned what I have—both the good as well as the not so good. But do any of us ever get that for which we bargain or deserve? The truth is good things happen to bad people just as bad things happen to good people. Why should I be any different?

Life is a journey, not a destination; although at my life’s end I hope for a gentle goodbye and that my regrets won’t outweigh the good I’ve left behind.

—JCG/February 20, 2010

I’ve always been a glass seven-eighths empty personality. While my mother battled Parkinson’s disease for 18 years, I watched as, in her bouts with depression, she spent a small fortune on clothes, jewelry, books and knick knacks for the house. While these purchases brought her temporary pleasure, they failed to make her happy. Often she returned many of her purchases a week or so later for others. In retrospect, I suspect her habit was symptomatic of her illness.

If it’s true that we often choose our unhappiness, then it can also be said that we can choose to be happy. It’s also true that old habits die hard.

I have much for which to be thankful. I still have good health, a job that pays fairly well in an economic climate the likes of which this country hasn’t seen since the Great Depression, and my second novel just launched. And yet I worry about its success. Will this child of mine, born of my imagination and hopes and dreams, be readily accepted by the readers with whom I hope to connect—yes, writers write, in large part, to connect with others.

I find it difficult to choose happiness in this step of publication. Perhaps I fear even more its potential success than I do should the number of sales fall short of my hopes and expectations because, like my mother, I find pleasure in the purchase of a good bottle of scotch or a box of cigars. But I know, from my own experience as well as from hers, that such purchases don’t make me happy.

Happiness, without peace of mind, is just a word, and peace of mind is something that eludes me, as it did my mother. Yet just as I understand that happiness is not a destination, it is a choice, one that I fear for a number of reasons. Am I deserving of happiness? Once achieved, will it disappoint me? Sometimes we hold onto our anger, our losses, our regrets, our pain and heartache as badges of honor, and doesn’t achieving happiness mean we have to let go of these?

It’s not happiness I seek as I progress through my sixth decade, but instead peace of mind. I’m convinced that without peace of mind, happiness is just a word, one whose definition I understand, but whose meaning doesn’t apply in my life.