Musings

Happily Haunted

On the wall in the back corner of the museum, behind displays of dusty drilling equipment, is a big picture of a group of young roughnecks standing under a derrick.  The year was 1920 and it wasn’t long after oil had been discovered in southeastern Kansas .  One of the men in overalls, with a serious expression on his face, was my grandfather.  My dad and I stood in front of the picture and  met his stare.

          

I was in Kansas to give a speech at a church convention, and invited my 79-year-old dad to come along.  I knew I’d have lots of free time between my parts in the event, and I knew how much my dad loves to travel – especially with his kids.  So we flew to Wichita  for the weekend.  We spent many happy hours sharing stories as we  drove and walked around, without much of an agenda. 

          

But we did plan a trip to the Kansas Oil Museum, not too far from Wichita .  Dad and Mom had found the place serendipitously while driving across country years ago.  Dad was amazed to find the picture of his father, Ray Burklo, on the wall of the museum. He wanted me to see  it. 

            

My dad, his father, and his grandfathers were roughnecks – oil field workers.  Ray Burklo had worked on the oil wells of western Ohio , then in Kansas for a year or so, and then settled  in the oil patch of Taft , California .  My dad, Don Burklo,  worked in the oil fields of Taft until he left for college. 

            

I was captivated by my grandfather’s gaze.  He seemed  to stare past the blank horizon of Kansas , beyond Taft’s desert landscape, past his own lifetime, past time itself.  He stared into my eyes, and through them to whatever lies beyond.  That face, those eyes, still haunt me since Dad and I flew back to California .  It’s a good kind of haunting.  I didn’t know him very well; he died when I was pretty young.  Looking into his eyes, I had a comforting sensation of knowing the depth of his being, even though I am at a loss to explain it.

            

After our sojourn at the museum, Dad and I went to a pub in Wichita . Over some mega glasses of micro-brew, I asked  him to tell me more about his father. I’d heard a lot of stories but now was thirsty for more.

            

My dad loved his dad dearly. He really appreciated the way that Ray was always there for him, always present and available, but never interfering with his own process of learning. Ray was close, but he didn’t hover over my  dad. As he talked, I realized that this  was exactly what I appreciate about my father, too. Being close to his kids matters supremely to him. Dad was sometimes over-protective of us when  we were young, but even then, he was never overbearing or controlling. As long as we were safe, he would let us figure out life on our own, while always being available for support and advice along the way. My grandfather Ray’s legacy is still powerful in my life, and I’d like to think it’s powerful in my daughter’s life, too, to this day.

      

When my daughter was born, I was sleep-deprived, since her mom’s labor was a long one.  So I suppose the boundary between my inner and outer levels of awareness was fuzzy at the time.  I was staring at my daughter as she quietly lay in her swaddling blanket.  Staring for a long time, in a state of blissful awe.  Suddenly I saw other faces superimposed on her face.  Faces of her dead ancestors.  I saw my mom’s mother, Nana. Then I saw my grandfather Ray’s face.  Then the face of my great-granddad P.R. Coil, my dad’s maternal grandfather.  And others, fading in and out, and then the visions passed. 

            

My daughter Liz is 21 years old now, and I still see different members of her family, living and dead, in her face, mannerisms, and proclivities.  Sometimes she makes gestures and facial expressions that are uncannily similar to those of my sister Kathy (who, happily, is still alive).  She has the grin and the spunk of her mom’s late grandmother, Nanie.  My daughter is haunted, in wonderful ways, by those who have gone before her.  As am I.  Each of us is a meeting-place for the souls who shape us.

            

All Hallows’ Eve, Halloween, All Saints Day – however you name it, this is a good time for me to reflect on those who haunt me.  Those precious people who have lived and died before me still have life in me, whether or not I am conscious of their influence. 

            

“Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God? You are not your own...” ( St. Paul , I Corinthians 6: 19)  This is a time to remember the presence of the past, a time to be humbled by awareness of how closely our lives are bound with others. It’s a season to offer hospitality to the memory of those departed ones whose lives have shaped ours. Each of us is a sanctuary for spirits who have gone before us.

      

 

      

Have a happily haunted Halloween!

Digging Up the Buried Life

"... But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
  But often, in the din of strife,
  There rises an unspeakable desire
  After the knowledge of our buried life;
  A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
  In  tracking out our true, original  course;                        
  A longing to inquire
  Into the mystery of this heart which beats
  So wild, so deep in us--to know
  Whence our lives come and where they go...."

      

“The Buried Life” by Matthew Arnold, 1852

 

      

I got a call a week ago from a young man named Johnnie  Penn. A newspaper editor had referred  him to me, thinking I might be able to help him in his quest. I invited Johnnie to pay me a visit at my church office.  Johnnie is one of four Canadian college students who dropped out of school to do the one hundred things they want to do before they die, and travel around North America  helping others to do the same. The funky old transit bus  in which they travel broke down in Sausalito . While it was being repaired, they continued their quest to find people with  special needs in fulfilling the goals of their lives.

 

      

They call their project “The Buried Life”. It’s a reference to a poem by Matthew Arnold,  from 1852, by the same name. Arnold ’s poem expresses the yearning for the authentic lives that we set aside when we take on our conventional roles in society. Each of us  needs to express the “fire and restless force” that are uniquely our own, but  that all too often are “buried”.

      

I took Johnnie on a walk through downtown Sausalito , introducing him and his quest to  people along the way.  I invited him and  his friends to show up in worship on Sunday and tell their story.  After my initial introductions, Johnnie and  his friends continued looking people with special needs in Sausalito and found one: a middle-aged man  with terminal illness, living alone in an empty apartment on a low income.

      

On Sunday, the four young men showed up in worship. To my surprise, they came with a film  crew! These clever young men have  parlayed their mission into a media event. A documentary is being made about their trip. They’ve been on MTV, and have corporate  sponsors. (See more at theburiedlife.com .) This answered my question about their source  of funds to keep their bus on the road.

      

I invited them to stand at the altar and describe their effort to dig up “The Buried Life” and live it to the full, helping others to do the same along the way. Our church people  enthusiastically offered their help in providing furniture for the dying man’s  apartment. Our congregation was moved by Johnnie, Ben, Dave, and Duncan ’s story.  The four young men were surrounded by admirers at coffee hour downstairs after worship.

      

Then they gathered in my office to ask me what I want  to do before I die - as the cameras were running. I told them that as far as achievements or  experiences in this life are concerned, I feel like I’ve already made it. From now on, any new worldly accomplishments  will be gravy for me.  But spiritually,  I’m not yet where I want to be. There’s  still part of my soul that’s “buried” by the rush of activity in my everyday  life. I want to reach a state of  spiritual equanimity in which I am full of compassion for others and fully  aware of the divine. When my time comes,  I want to die with a twinkle in my eye and a heart full of love for my family  and all those around me. That may seem  like a simple thing to want to achieve before I die. But I’m going to need to make some real  sacrifice of spiritual, physical, and mental effort to get there.

      

What do you want to do before you die? What are you doing to make it happen? What part of your life is “buried”, and needs  to come to light and action? Thank you,  Johnnie, Ben, Dave, and Duncan, for asking such a good question – and having  the nerve to live it!