Autumnal Suite

Prelude

Out riding my bike recently while at the same time doing my best to avoid getting squashed beneath one motorized vehicle or another, I for some reason thought about The Grand Canyon Suite, something I remember listening to often while in grade school. Which means, of course, that I've not listened to it in many decades. Go figure. I recall only bits of the work itself, but with "suite" in mind I naturally thought of the song "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes," a slightly more contemporary work and one with which I can actually sing along.

It was just a few days after the start of autumn, a day on which the light switches from "changing" to "changed." Long bike rides--like long hikes and runs--are good for letting the mind open a bit, a coward's version of LSD, perhaps. Problems often resolve themselves when they are ignored for a little while. I only wish that drivers would not cut in front of me.

Happy Birthday, Dad

About a week after autumn starts is (or would be?) my father's birthday. Always since he died I've felt a slight draping of melancholy settle over me a few days before the date itself; often I don't realize why until I stop to think--or think while on my bike--about what's going on. Perhaps hat he died in the autumn of his life more than his winter makes me sense that I am in my own autumn, though it has been many years since I not only came to terms with mortality, but also stopped regretting senseless acts and stupid reactions. Understanding that I have moved from "aging" to "old" is somewhat liberating.

I am also glad to have come to understand that my father never needed to be forgiven for how he dealt (or didn't deal) with me. The more I have learned about his life and his father, the more I've seen that he did a damned fine job. My grandfather wasn't always nice to his wife and children, though he always treated me well. He, too, must have worked with whatever he was given, and I do not think my father ever spoke poorly of his own father.

"My son is a Marine, and he came home a mess."

One of my students didn't show up for class a couple nights ago, a week after letting me know that she had personal things to deal with. The day after missing class she sent me an email to let me know that she had to drop the course. I sent her a note in response and asked what I could do to help, that perhaps we could find a way for her to both deal with her personal life and remain in the course. Today we talked on the phone. She told me that her son, a Marine, is having trouble with things. Years ago I would have let her drop the course and probably would not have given things a second thought. The school at which I teach has rules, and we are always cautioned against treating students differently, against giving anyone special treatment that might cause another student to complain.

These days, though, I'm more willing to address such things head-on, to adjust the rules to fit the situation. My experience with this woman, in fact, comes just a day after a student in another course confided that he is a both schizophrenic and bi-polar. He said that he has never told his teachers this, but now feels that I should know. And, again years ago, I would not have offered to help, probably would not have listened. But these days I remember more of the people who in small and too often unacknowledged ways have helped me: Friends I have now, friends whom I've let drift away; teachers who have guided me; bosses and co-workers who have listened to my petty complaints and ignored my insensitive comments and overall aloofness.

The student who wants to drop told me that she will continue and finish the course, and I am happy about that. Things could change before our next meeting, I know, but at the moment I am hopeful she will indeed return.

I am comfortable with forgiveness, glad for hope.