Circles, Cycles, and Cicero

Circles, Cycles, and Cicero 

     Closely approaching the seven-year mark in this retirement journey, I have a distinct sense of coming to the end of one cycle and beginning another. It seems natural, and also in line with voluminous psychological, religious, and astrological writings affirming that such cycles meaningfully occur in life. And now that I think of it, seven years prior to retirement saw the end of my marriage; and seven years before that I moved the family to Houston from Dallas to take a job offer I couldn’t refuse. A further seven years before that, we had just moved to Dallas with two infant children, and seven years before that I was beginning the doctoral program and a thirty-year academic career. Those were all turning points, so perhaps there is a personal history of seven-year cycles that I’ve lived through but only just now realize.

I’m not so much interested in a theory of cycles as I am in making sense of subjective experience and framing some goals and intentions for the next round. It’s time I took stock, so I will consider the turning of the cycles as a given, and a good starting point. I’m motivated and guided in this by the wisdom of Emerson’s essay on “Circles,” and Roman philosopher Cicero’s good counsel on How to Grow Old. Thus, these reflections actually do relate to “Circles,” Cycles, and Cicero.

     I’m thinking about this first elapsing cycle in retirement as an apprenticeship toward more seasoned maturity. I haven’t reached any discernable state of grace, but have had the vision of it and made halting progress in that direction. I didn’t plan or anticipate developments as they’ve happened, and learning by osmosis comes slowly, through intermittent insights and realizations. If I expected linearity, and suppose I probably did, it was terribly naïve and unrealistic. Life, as Emerson says, happens through surprises, and we should embrace the uncertainty. I’m not inclined to differ.

     Witness these seven years. Just days before the 2016 election, I bought a beautiful rural property with a small vineyard on the bank of the Rio Grande in northern New Mexico. I did it on impulse really, and began preparing to move from Houston. In retrospect, perhaps too flatteringly, I think back on this as the kind of ecstatic self-affirmation that Emerson describes as characteristic of the idealist, or transcendentalist.

My actions were responses to spiritual impulse and desire to live in the heart of nature. I didn’t feel I needed to rationalize or defend them. They were sincere expressions of self, moved by a feeling of God breathing through me in that place. But such a wave and the crazy change that follows take a lot of adaptation and time to absorb, internalize, and make sense.

Besides the radical break with the past, at that particular moment the quality of government in the United States suffered a serious fall with the rise of Trump, from which it hasn’t recovered. In my own life, the changes to my outer and inner worlds were equally radical. The outer changes included retiring from a thirty-year academic career and moving to the bank of the Rio Grande in La Joya, New Mexico. The inner changes involved psychological and spiritual transformation, from ego-driven materialist to nature-focused idealist, professing transcendentalism.

Pondering which changes preceded which, I again defer to Emerson: “The key to every man is his thought…. He has a helm which he obeys, after which all his facts are classified.” My “helm” of new ideas was concocted from variations on idealism from Jung, Huxley, Castaneda, Garcia Marquez, and others, as well as Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman, mixed and absorbed during my last seven years in Houston. I felt a spirit rising through me from this and found it compelling, as I still do.

The trend in my spiritual and psychological development since then has been positive, albeit with dips and troughs, including serious upsets (as chronicled here and elsewhere in this memoir). I have adapted by degrees to places, people, and circumstances and coped effectively enough to make a beautiful new home and get on as a productive, healthy elder. It has taken time and effort to arrive at a place where I feel really settled, confident of my footing, purposeful and focused. In this time, I’ve internalized these new ideas, to where I feel their power circulating and renewing, and organized my faculties, resources, and objectives to put them to work – in developing The Transcendentalist, where to the best of my ability they serve as testament to my experience and belief.

     Looking to the external world from this vantage point, I see it coming apart at the seams, in war, hatred, ignorance, cynicism, misinformation, chaos, dysfunction, and catastrophic climate change. I hope the spiritual progress I have made will see me wisely and graciously through the coming upheavals. I hope to live and write in truth and a spirit of peace through whatever, to the end.

     Settling in and trying to get connected were primary preoccupations through these seven years. Pete next door in La Joya, who sold me the place, was a solid friend and connection from the first day. Neighbors proved generally cordial, and all was well. I was eager for female companionship and met a few women through circumstance and online dating, but nothing significant developed. It’s late in life to imagine finding and developing a thorough harmony of interests and lifestyle with someone, but always fun to walk or dine with someone attractive who shines the light of spirit. I have a couple of deep, beautiful friends who match that description, and that’s enough.

     Jimmy was also a good friend through these years, though he wasn’t talking to me at first because of the misunderstanding about Susana (see “Lay of the Land”). By the end of the period, however, we had been close as brothers for a number of years. Others came and went, from the local winery, the Northern New Mexico Vine & Wine Society, the Petroglyph Society, the Instituto Cervantes in Albuquerque, and random casual meetings. I got along just fine, reading, writing, playing guitar, enjoying nature and the mostly solitary life on the river, and not worrying much about the future.

     I wrote little memoir pieces, but never liked them enough to sustain the effort. I didn’t see the point and had pretty much abandoned actively pursuing The Transcendentalist. Ultimately, I just let it go, concluding that I didn’t have much to offer in that direction. I can see now that I lacked the necessary focus, imagination, inspiration, motivation, and faith to do what I need to do, which is to write this and keep on writing. It has taken me the first seven-year cycle of retirement to arrive at this conclusion. It took time to internalize and integrate the sweeping changes before I could well articulate them. My internal compass and Cicero both suggest that this is what I can and should be doing, striving toward wisdom, truth, and beauty in life and self-expression.

     The greatest upset and challenge of the past cycle is the sad saga of losing my kids to unforeseen discord, and then trying to find my path through darkness of the fallout. This is hard, but maybe therapeutic, to put on a page. It’s a hard story to tell, but it comes from a vantage point where I’ve moved past it as best I’m able.

This saga begins from where I surprised them with the news that I was looking to buy a place in New Mexico. They didn’t say much about it, but I think they thought I was crazy and that this was an unwelcome surprise. We had enjoyed steady upbeat relations through the years when I was divorced and living in Montrose (Houston), and I surely didn’t expect relationships to change much after the move. I had also related cordially to their mother consistently for seven years since the divorce.

Seven years later, neither one of them has visited New Mexico, and I haven’t heard from either in a long time. They don’t want to hear from me, unless I come on bended knee, and that would not be appropriate. I’m fatalistically resigned to it all, from powerlessness, futility, and the need to carry on with psyche intact. This modicum of peace and acceptance has taken years of rumination and meditation. I’ve been open about it with friends when the topic of kids arises. The facts are fundamental to a father’s identity and can’t be denied. With time, I’ve found an increasingly spiritual context for it that relieves the pain. I wish them well, with father’s love, in moving ahead in their lives in a troubled world. God’s blessings be upon them!    

     The hardest part to accept, and to me the saddest, is that, despite their name, they reject the Brown family (in and through me). I’m proud of my family and some illustrious deeds of my parents (and theirs), but they are utterly mindless of them. That’s like making a conscious decision not to recognize a very significant part of yourself. That part could conceivably jump up out of the dark of the subconscious and grab you sometime by the superego!

       I’ll swear to the end that I was a good father. I enjoyed and valued fatherhood in the proper spirit and have a trove of treasured memories that continue to make it a warm, fundamental part of my experience. I loved, supported, and educated them through stable, upper-middle-class childhoods, and was reliably present. I was cordial with their mother for years after she asked for and received an amicable divorce. That request seemed to come out of the blue, but she had been stewing for years in disappointment and resentment that she was unable to express. She kept a generally cheerful, cooperative demeanor, and I thought the marriage was essentially fine, but she asked me to leave, and I did. I didn’t understand, and in fact was naively clueless, about how the two kids and their mother had constituted one caucus of the family, and I solo another for years before this came to pass.

      For years afterward, each kid would come every couple of weeks for a sleepover, which was cordial, fun, and much valued by me. I did not think my geographic move would much affect the quality of relations with the kids. I kept up the correspondence by phone after moving, but had difficulty connecting and communicating with Sara. She didn’t return calls or texts. When the family reunited for Tim’s wedding in Houston and Sara’s graduation in Brooklyn, I felt her cold distance. No one expressed any interest in my new place and how things were going there. I had dinner with their mother the night before the graduation, and she just walked out when I began to talk about Sara’s not communicating. I was definitely outside the family circle at both events. I wondered why and felt some resentment afterward.

     After not hearing from Sara for a long time, I asked Tim, who had stayed in contact, if he knew what the matter was with Sara. I further said to him, foolishly, that rejecting me is tantamount to rejecting the Brown family heritage, and that if they were to have some legacy coming it would certainly come from that side of the family. I realized how ill-advised that was immediately when he accused me of using inheritance coercively to keep them close to me. I certainly didn’t intend that; I merely meant to state the facts as they are.

This matter of their family heritage remains to me the largest loss in the whole saga. I gave them an excellent heritage, but it does not suit them.  Still, it’s where they come from and who they are. They relate only to their mother’s family. I see nothing I can do about that at this point, and I’m very sorry for them missing what should be a major prideful aspect of their identity. I suppose that I (and the Brown family) will see them by-and-by, on this side of the river or the other. They will always be a part of me. And I will always be a part of them, in more than name only.

One day I finally received an email from Sara, explaining why she wasn’t communicating. She indicated two reasons: first, I was mean, and second, I had essentially molested her during a Christmas Eve dinner and evening shortly before I moved. Well, that was a lot to swallow. I might have stipulated to the charge of being mean, in the interest of getting along; but the part about getting into bed with her that evening was completely false and outrageous, and I couldn’t make any sense of it.

As I struggled with this, I did recall that I had been very concerned about her comfort that night, sleeping on a dilapidated sleeper sofa that her brother usually volunteered to take when we were all together. But he was sleeping in the guest room with his fiancé that night. The way I expressed that concern somehow morphed into my getting into bed with her, which simply didn’t happen. I certainly never had a sexual thought about my daughter, but was always concerned for her comfort, safety, and well-being. I believe now that she could only receive that kind of concern from her dear mother, and it seemed like something less coming from me.

I too quickly sent her a reply, without fully processing the magnitude of what she’d written, saying essentially “I’m not interested in hearing about how I ruined your life, because I didn’t.” I believe I’m entitled to, and continue to insist upon a modicum of appreciation and respect from them. They were not raised by a single parent, and my role and bearing toward them were certainly neither marginal nor negative.

In the crux of the trouble, I had a conversation reviewing the matter with their mother. She acted essentially as prosecuting attorney on behalf of her daughter. She also confessed that advice and support she had provided in crucial times past was given only in the form of what I wanted to hear and was not necessarily sincere. One such matter concerned use of medical power of attorney for my mother in hospice. At the end of that conversation, I told her I didn’t think we would need to talk any further, ever. She had lost all credibility with me. At that point, the thought that cutting her off would kill my relationship with the kids did not yet occur to me. Even so, I don’t regret it. I would not accept her as mediator of relationships with my kids.

It became clear then that the three of them, unbeknownst to me, had been discussing this matter and what to do about dad for the three years since the fateful Christmas Eve. I had been totally in the dark about it, with no clue at all that any issue even existed. That in itself was a hard realization. The reason for the cold shoulder at the wedding and graduation and Sara’s silence became perfectly clear. They were silent partners with their terrible secret.

I made numerous subsequent attempts to reestablish some kind of positive communication with the kids by text and email, until I just gave up hope of a favorable response. Many birthdays and occasions have now passed in silence. I don’t expect any cheer from them now, and the bitterness has passed.

Hope did return when Tim sent a note informing me that he and his wife were expecting a child. I joyfully suggested that he come to Santa Fe for a weekend, to reconnect and resolve our differences, enough to celebrate and honor the new arrival in proper family style. I suggested I would pick him up at the Albuquerque airport and told him I had luxury accommodations for him next door in my then-vacant rental condo. He curtly replied that he did not want me picking him up, and he wouldn’t stay in my condo. So, I told him that if he were unable to come with at least a modicum of appreciation and respect for his father, it would be best not to come at all. That’s just the way it has to be. He elected not to come and has been out of touch since the darling child’s birth. She too carries the family heritage that her father disowns. Feeling this keenly, I wrote the following poem for her.

To Cecilia=

I can’t say if we’ll ever meet,
Though to me you’re near and precious,
As any child so mild and sweet
Was ever to grandparents

The joy you bring, O precious thing,
Is life in full to others,
When you smile, the heavens sing
With hope for your bright future

I know you’re safe and warm
With love and care there, as it should be,
But see no harm and think I ought to
Introduce part of your family 

These people on your father’s side
And, of course, his father’s too,
Passed down their lot of strength and love
That now come down to you

First, there’s your great grandmother,
Mary Lou, of wide renown,
Whose maiden name was Cannon,
But so graced the name of Brown

She was a pilot for the government,
For science, and for joy,
Who mapped the earth where she was sent,
Great projects to deploy

In this, she was a pioneer,
With nerve, and skill, and courage,
Who blew through vicious boundaries
That limit women’s choices 

She was also kind and gentle,
With a wealth of fine old friends,
And a loving, caring mother
With a lot of strength to lend 

That strength is for your progress now,
As she would wish it so,
That it be in you to draw on,
When you need it, as you go 

And too, through me, it comes to you
And through your own fine parents,
Just as it may come through you
To those for whom you’re caring 

Then old Price Brown, we called him Pop,
He was a good old boy,
A teacher and man of the land
Who made his home his joy 

Who grew great gardens, raised small flocks
Of turkeys, chickens, beef cows,
And made by hand fine furniture
All scattered through the old house 

There are many more behind these two,
Browns back to times now distant,
But here’s a start to give you
A fuller picture in an instant 

Of part of your family
You might not hear too much of,
Strong threads in your tapestry
And legacy of boundless love 

Then there’s me, grandfather Brown,
Father of your daddy,
The old professor, been around
Grown old, but mostly happy 

Wishing you a happy life,
Productive and fulfilling,
Following your inner light
To destiny, God willing 

Writing this helped reconcile my feelings about the whole situation. I’m largely free from the bitterness now.

It’s hard, even shameful, that this sad story is mine to tell, but I no longer feel like the lonesome loser over it as often as I used to. The difficulty and shame that come with the telling of it unavoidably make the burden a social impediment. No one wants to hear it, and anyone who does hear it has to wonder what kind of father becomes estranged from his kids. The matter has to come up in any relationship that goes deeper than the surface. I don’t shy away from it, just tell it truthfully, as I have here. I’m ruminate about it far less than I used to and say a prayer for their well-being whenever I do. I feel I’m the stronger for having gotten largely past a tragic loss that might have taken the heart out of anyone. My conscience and road ahead are both clear.

This has been the most difficult challenge I’ve had through this seven-year cycle, and it has taken me this long to process the situation and reach this point. I begin the next cycle with appreciation of my rich experience of fatherhood, love and best wishes for my kids, and a clear conscience and road ahead. Reconciliation would be a nice surprise, but it will have to start with some appreciation and respect from them. I have done a lot for them and have not ruined their lives. I believe their grievances are sorely misplaced.

     Redeveloping The Transcendentalist website marks the beginning of the new cycle. It provides needed focus and motivation, as well as an aspirational creative identity toward which to strive – the literary idealist, as described by Emerson, updated to these perilous, chaotic times and seasoned with New Mexican spice.

     Seeds of The Transcendentalist were planted during the latter career days, as I was continuing to teach, research, and peer review in marketing, while coming to believe in the universal presence and priority of the spirit and reality of the unseen, with Emerson, Jung, Huxley, and the intuitive signal that comes through the unconscious as mentors. I claimed the internet domain thetranscendentalist.net, intending a magazine of mystical-spirited literature, albeit grounded in easily relatable mundane experience. I went as far as having the website built for me upon arrival in New Mexico; but I didn’t know how to manage and manipulate the site and platform myself and didn’t establish a discipline or habit of curating it. I was distracted by editing the Journal of Retailing and getting out in and accustomed to the completely new world of orchards, vineyards, adobes, rivers, mesas, meadows, and mountains surrounding my new abode. The website remained virtually nothing, for seven years. My intention to edit a magazine on it waned completely.

     The motivation to build and curate the site as a means of publishing my work has returned, and I’m making daily efforts at it. According to Cicero, reading and writing are among the best possible activities for aging productively and well, and I must agree. The transcendentalist (idealist) philosophy itself has been considerable help in getting through my challenges, as retreat into the realm of spirit can relieve great pain and stress. The path to such retreat is also open. The spirit contains a complete inventory of coping resources.

     It has also taken these seven years to come together with enough friends, who are good enough friends, to feel family-like support in everyday life. Santa Fe is blessed with a plethora of interesting people, and a few of them have become very close friends who care and share liberally. I try to do the same and be there for them. Several others live in Albuquerque, and a couple of them still in Houston. I love them like family, because in fact they’ve become my family. My other family can still be family too, and I wish them full, rich blessings. But I don’t really need to see them. That is, unless they want to see me and come with a modicum of appreciation and respect for their father.