Contentment from fear

The first time that I can recall visiting my grandmother was when I was about five years old. The only thing I remember about the visit was her half-smiling and asking me if I had gone to Sunday school that morning. Being so young, it was difficult to describe what I felt, but I remember I was very uneasy. Now, I know I was frightened.

The house looks the same now as it did the first time I remember it. It is an old frame house covered with gray, imitation brick. The porch was painted a darker gray, and on it was gray swing which never failed to squeak when it moved. To the left of the house were two old pine trees, with branches so thick they kept the sun from shining through. The grass over their roots was always dry and dead and covered with brown needles that had fallen from the lower branches. The grass in the small backyard was always untidy. Every time I saw that house I felt a twinge of fear. It seemed very old, very desolate and it never changed. It reminded me very much of my grandmother.

I recall how reluctantly I walked up the steps to the front door. I knew exactly what I would see and hear each time I walked into that dimly lit, drab living room: my grandmother sitting on the gray couch just to the right of the door, my grandfather in the recliner to the left of the door, but he never frightened me. He moved about and talked, but my grandmother didn't. She just sat there on the couch in the same gray print dress, staring blankly out the front window, as if waiting for someone to come. This was odd, I thought. She was healthy enough so why just sit and look out a window? Even though she was old, I thought she could find something better to do. Maybe I was just afraid of my grandmother.

I always asked my mother if I could go out an play. I had to get out. Outside, I'd head straight for the car and jump in. I'd to sit behind the wheel and play bus driver. I wanted to drive away as fast as I could. Each time I had to stop for a traffic light, though, I would think about my grandmother. I wondered why I wanted to get away from her. After all, she had never been mean to me, but I just couldn't bear to watch her look out that window. I wondered what she was looking for. When I got out on the front porch, I would look far down the street, but I never saw anything. Everything always looked so normal to me.

I think I played bus driver every Sunday afternoon for the next seven years. Every time I went to see her she sat in the same place, looked the same way, and caused me to feel the same way too. But one Sunday, we left to see her, but we did not go to her house. This Sunday I did not feel so uneasy and I had no desire to flee. This Sunday we went to her funeral.

As I stood there and looked at her, I was finally not afraid. She lay there peacefully in a pretty pink dress and seemed more content than I could ever remember. When we went to her house after the funeral, I stopped before going in. I paused and looked once more down the street where I had seen her stare so often. I still saw nothing strange, but I felt content. I was not happy that she had died. In fact, I now missed her a little. Yet, I could not help but feel she had finally seen what she had been looking for, for so long.

A confused calm

Twelve of us huddled around the small, black table in the center of the room upon which were a Bible and one unlit, white candle. A single incandescent bulb glowed while we sat silently listening to the instructions for the séance. Crippled shadows danced on the dirty, replastered walls. An uneasiness filled the air and the faces around the circle. The laughing, disrespectful faces I once knew were now mere morbid, morose masks.

The window behind me rumbled and the circle jerked in closer. It was only the wind. It had been windy since the day we decided to have the séance, and that night wanted to be the highpoint of that dismal weather. The day had been gray and overcast, and the cold rain that had started in the late afternoon hadn't abated. The bare trees snapped wildly in front of the street lights whipped our own crippled shadows into deeper submission. The bulb extinguished, the candle was lit. We were ready to begin. We closed our eyes, bowed our heads and mumbled the Lord's Prayer, then silent concentration in an attempt to make contact ...

The room was exceedingly dark. The walls receded into the darkness. The faces of our little group turned into photo negatives those sitting to my right and left began clutching my hands ever tighter. My heart raced, adrenaline pumped, bright flashes shot through my head, my ears started ringing, throbbing as the blood rushed through them. I was flailing, falling through a void, the air stale, musty, used ... the silence was broken:

"I doubt if we'll make any contact tonight."

A barely audible sigh seeped from the circle. We bowed our heads and again repeated the Lord's Prayer. Someone reached over, fumbled with the switch, bringing the bulb back to life. An uneasy gaiety returned. No one looked at me strangely for I had not budged since started. We got up and walked quietly from the room. Downstairs it was business as usual.

Hope in the darkness

The experience of dark and cold can call forth feeling of despair. Food was in short supply, perhaps one family or group didn't have enough to make it through these times. But those who had more, could and did share, for it was understood that life could be better if more, not fewer, survived. Fire brought warmth, but so did the huddling together around the fire, and so did the sharing. At worst, you knew you were not alone. At best, you had hope for the future.

These, too, are feelings we share even today. They express themselves perhaps in different ways, but the feelings are the same. Our forebears weren't children, they weren't child-like in their innocence and at bliss in their ignorance. It is hard to believe that there were Einsteins among the cavemen. Someone figured out how to handle and manage fire. Someone thought the wheel could be a good idea. Yet, these days I often sense just a trace of arrogance, of (unwarranted) superiority because the least among us know more than those folks could ever have dreamed of. Aren't we just grand? But are we? We may know how to download apps to our smart phone, but do we know how to share with and care for each other? We may have indoor plumbing and the latest microwave, but raise another person's spirits enough that they survive until spring? I'm not so sure.

While we moderns may think we prefer snazzy formulas and differential equations to encode our knowledge, for millennia this was done in stories, poems, and songs. The myths of the Ancients, whether we like it or not, encapsulated an extent and degree of knowledge – of nature, the universe, the movements of the planets, the cycle of the seasons, when to plant, when to harvest, when to celebrate, and how to hope. This was a knowledge meticulously collected, constructed and preserved because of it survival value. We like to think today that we don't need any of this any more, but a quick look around by a half-observant eye tells you that much of what we see is tenuous, fragile, hollow, insubstantial, and downright disgusting. Don't get me wrong, just as there were cavemen Einsteins, there were cavemen jerks and thieves and exploiters. What they bequeathed to us, however, was not the worst of themselves, but their best, that is, their myths. Why, because they are such cute stories. I doubt it. Rather perhaps that we might learn sooner what they simply learned too late: cooperation with each other and with the world around us is a sustainable strategy; competition only ever gets you short-term gains. It is simply too selfish for its own good.

Over the next couple of weeks, then, I'd like to revisit one of these mythical constructs to see if there is not something therein that we can cull out for today … and, it has more to do with each of us than it does with anything else.