Our emotions sometimes manifest themselves in ways that can seem unconnected to the bodies that feel and express them. So when Gregory released an audible sigh, he realized too late that others had heard and could interpret his expression as impolite criticism of the speaker.
Jill noticed her father’s discomfort and gave his hand a little shake as if to wake him from a feeble-minded nap. She whispered, “Are you all right?”
He whispered back furtively, “I’ve heard this a hundred times already.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” replied Jill, sounding a little perturbed.
Initially, Gregory had found the speaker’s topic an interesting line of thought– either as metaphor or metaphysics – that ideas had minds of their own, with their own intentions, interests, and perspectives, somewhat independent of the host bodies that the ideas occupied. His own experience in the military had taught him that the cohesiveness of the unit and the unison of team effort represented far more power and effectiveness than an equivalent number of men acting independently. There was a kind of primitive life force and intelligent quality to the (effective group) that endured after one or more of its individuals were lost. But after hearing the same verbiage a few dozen times or so, and from numerous different sources – lectures, pamphlets, weekend seminars – the constant unchanging repetition could become tedious at best and propagandistic at worst. The hefty fees that preceded the counseling sessions didn’t sit well with his inbred frugality that had been fostered by the Great depression of the thirties.
His mind seemed to wander from one thing to another now, the older he grew. Sometimes spurred by a random fleeting sensation, word, or impulse; sometimes as if his attention was spinning randomly like a roulette wheel through all the possible thoughts that might jump into his conscious brain at any given moment. The recovery of his youthful, agile mind was as important as the recovery of his body. As Jill and the others sat enraptured with the ongoing audio-visual presentation, Gregory stared at his hands. He touched each finger to his thumb sequentially proving to himself the obvious, that he could create and direct his own invisible ideas and intentions to perform physical acts. Gregory had himself adopted the idea that he could do much more than simply recover from his life-threatening injury from over a year ago. He could become stronger than he had been beforehand. It would take time, a resource in precious short supply at his age and condition. Badly wounded, nearly destroyed, on a clear path leading toward (~ death), he’d chosen to take a detour. He’d been comatose for some weeks before beginning to rouse periodically and slowly becoming aware of his circumstance. No one could tell him exactly what had happened or just how he’d come to the hospital. Police reports were sketchy. All that was known for sure was that someone had called 911 to report an accident and request that an ambulance be dispatched to an address.
In and out of consciousness, there had been little he could do but dream when asleep and dwell in despair when awake. Recovery would be painful and slow, if there was to be any recovery at all. In his half-conscious state, he’d initially prepared himself to die. (~Lying in his hospital bed, the soft hum of machinery pulsed somewhere as a barely audible sigh.)
At first he’d thought that the Stranger had been a dream. He retained a vague sense of someone talking to him; not his family or friends, not the doctors or nurses, but a voice coming from somewhere. Sometime later he found a pamphlet on the bed table that someone had left while he was sleeping. Its sappy title, The Love We Take, would ordinarily have been enough for him to ignore or toss the thing. But there was nothing else to read within reach, so he glanced through it just long enough to suspect that it was some sort of religious tract. Unlike the Stranger – vague, dreamlike, ghostly – the pamphlet was authentic, something Gregory could hold in his hand or point a finger at. He’d tucked the pamphlet into an accessible drawer to get it out of sight of any visitors, lest they feel inspired to encourage him conversationally in uncomfortable personal topics. He was, after all, at the peak and pinnacle of worldly wisdom, thus could gain little if anything from the advice of others at that late point in his life. He had actually believed that once.
The Stranger must have been an acquaintance from Jill’s business association, coalition, or whatever they were calling it in those days. Before she’d died, Jill’s mother had been convinced it was a cult and demanded that Gregory do something about it. “What do you expect me to do? She’s a grown woman,” he protested.
Despite Gregory’s shared concern and suspicion, the Stranger had planted a seed in his mind, the seed of an idea. What was a seed, asked the voice, but information, a design of a particular possibility? That the possibility exists does not mean the seed will grow. But given a fertile field, water, and the light of day, the seed will transform into a new form and become more than an idea. Previously, the seed existed as mere information; a possibility that might rise out of the earth into a New World, into a new life…
It made sense that the pamphlet’s publishers would distribute them in a hospital where despair and desperation hung thick in the air like some cold and dank subterranean cave. It seemed almost written for Gregory in his condition, using particular phrases repeatedly: Stand as a man… learning to walk… uncertain steps… “The joy of every joy of every life must in some way be compared to that original joy of taking those first walking steps into our mother’s arms. How would a baby’s first steps impress itself upon our infantile minds and endure throughout the remainder of our lives ?
After six months at a rehabilitation facility (thank God for his military health insurance!), Gregory finally came home with wheels where there had once been legs. The wheelchair was wide, clumsy, and (degrading). His one good arm couldn’t steer the contraption well. Doors were too narrow to pass through easily. Not yet completely independent of adult diapers, needing his daughter’s help to go to the bathroom was the most humiliating experience of his life. But it served one small benefit as an immediate motivation to regain enough strength to stand again on two legs as a man.
Suddenly, a crashing applause woke Gregory from his daydream and he found himself joining the rest of the audience in a standing ovation as Amika finished her talk. Jill was intermittently clapping and raising both hands over her head with ‘OK’ hand gestures, as were most of the rest of the crowd. He stretched as if from a nap and was anxious to go, but Jill wanted to (chat) with her friends and associates at the front of the room. “You come too,” said Jill tugging on his arm.
“No, I’ll wait in the lobby,” he said. She rushed away, obviously enthralled, as he retrieved his water bottle from the chair and made his way toward the lobby where even more spirited Walkers were excitedly discussing the talk. He parked himself off to the side unobtrusively, next to the rack of pamphlets and brochures available for the taking. He recognized the pamphlet The Love We Take next to an envelope inscribed with “Get Well Soon!”
Jill was, by far, the more committed and enthusiastic of the two. Even as Gregory felt he owed his life to TheProgram, he couldn’t help but feel a disconcerting hesitation, an inner prompting that he’d seen something like this before in his long life. And it disturbed him. But it had been years since he’d had the opportunity to observe his daughter up close now that she was grown and supporting herself. These seminars were the first thing they’d really had in common since she was small and he drove her to a progression of interests that came and went throughout childhood: (~piano lessons, dance, cheerleading, etc – find earlier list). She’d been a constant source of fascination since she was tiny. Practically every day brought new surprises. Not all of them were particularly pleasant; who likes diapers and waking in the middle of the night? But overwhelmingly, there were moments of stark raving joy. He had wanted to name her Joy, but was outvoted by his wife. The old adage was true: it was the woman’s house. She just let the husband live there.
When Terry came along after a couple of years, they had expected the task of child rearing to be easier the second time. As experienced parents, they’d been through it before. But Terry was nothing like Jill. They were opposites, not just in gender but in practically every aspect of what a child is. Jill was happy, but Terry was fussy. Jill mostly slept through the night, but Terry was up at all hours. Jill was curious and engaged; Terry was moody, hard to please, and prone to screaming tantrums. One time, a house-guest jokingly alluded to Dennis the Menace comics and coined the name Terry the Terror. It only got worse as Terry grew into adolescence and then young adulthood.
Until then, marriage and parenthood had been a pleasure. Suddenly, the entire dynamic of the household changed. Parents were tired, overworked, cranky, snappish, and accusatory of the other. Making matters worse was Gregory’s increased responsibility in his work and career. More travel, less time for family or himself. Sleeplessness, bad dreams, weight gain. He used to have opportunities for refreshing solitude and independence. No more. Home and family were two completely different worlds: before and after Terry. He asked the imaginary ghost of his wife, hovering accusingly there in the lobby of the lecture hall, “The pleasure of your company, where did it go?”
NEXT: Moderator
thermodynamics of ideas 