Hi. Welcome to “Living in a Body.” Thank you for being here. I appreciate you. Listen to the podcast version of this episode be pressing PLAY above. Enjoy. When you’re done reading, please leave a comment. I love your comments. ❤️ Hal
A Whole New Hal
I'm trying to make sense of this new life -- this life of perpetual rest, this life of moving from one bed to the other, this life of chronic illness, physical limitation and spiritual contemplation. I'm interested to see where it all leads, but lately, as my symptoms have worsened, it's been easy to lose hope. God knows I don't want this to be the last chapter. I'm too attached to this world to let it go yet. There's still so much more living to do and I was just getting started.
My mom has been praying to get the old me back. She wants to glory once more in her multi-instrumentalist son that stood tall on stages doing amazing things in front of audiences of all ages. I have to admit that I'd do just about anything to get back there, but I have a feeling that God has different plans for me. My sense is that I have two options. I could forever long to return to the past or I could embrace, create and unravel a new me -- a whole new Hal.
This morning, the sun is shining brightly through the south facing window in my room. The new me is soaking in these sunbeams, content with their slow path across the bed. I'm trying to believe that this is enough for me today. In fact, it's more than enough. How blessed I am to be alive. God, please help me to remember that.
My Unitarian-Universalist colleague and friend, Rev. Steven Protzman doesn't get to savor these mid-winter blessings today. He doesn't get to soak in this February light. Steven died last Monday night. On January 29th, with almost no warning, his heart stopped beating and all his plans came to a sudden halt. If I could do it over again, when he came over last December to pick up that tone chime, I would have accepted his offer to sit and talk for a while. At the time, I probably had some pressing distraction pulling me away from an afternoon conversation. At the time, the familiar walls of fear and fatigue probably did their job to protect me from the risk of a human connection. At the time, neither of us new that two months later, Steven would be gone.
It occurs to me how often it's been the case that when people in my life die, I regret not having spent more time with them while I had the chance. There was Meita Marshall, John Langstaff and Maj Ragain, to name just a few. Now I add Steven Protzman to the list. He was a good man. Steven and I butted heads a few times, but I deeply appreciate the ministerial presence that he gave me when I needed it the most. I just didn't know it at the time.
With all this in mind, I think I'll put this writing down for a few minutes. The new me is gonna soak in some of this February sunshine like it's the most important thing in the room this morning.
These days, I aspire to slow down and do just one thing at a time. When I'm soaking in the sun, I'm just soaking in the sun. When I'm eating lunch, I'm just eating lunch. When I'm talking on the phone, I'm just talking on the phone. When I'm resting, the new me is just resting. Of course, this is easier said than done for a master multi-tasker like myself. The old Hal was a one-man-band, the musical king of killing three birds with one stone. Have you ever seen me with banakulas in each hand, a harmonica strapped around my neck and shakers tied to my feet? The old me in action was a multi-tasking site to behold. If you were there, you know what I'm talking about. If you weren't there, let me let you in on a little story about the old Hal that I'm thinking my mom's probably never heard before.
I got an acting job in West Liberty, Ohio playing the role of Casey Jones with the Mad River Theatre Works in a traveling play for kids called, "The Legend of Casey Jones." (See The Legend) For several months, on Monday nights, I'd drive down to Logan County to be an actor for the week and then come home on Friday nights to be with Hallie for the weekend. My solo residence was an apartment attached to the funeral home halfway between West Liberty and Bellefontaine. It was a big yellow ranch style home and there were literally dead people living in the storage room right next to me. It was the early 2000's, I didn't yet have a cell phone and I had no laptop to keep me occupied. Hallie's mom and I had split up and I hadn't t yet found lasting sobriety in the rooms of 12 step recovery. While playing the role of Casey Jones, I was literally living the life of Casey Jones -- late night drives on dark county roads, burning the candle at both ends and pushing the reality of a mild case of chronic fatigue syndrome to the limit. I was tired all the time and always looking for somewhere to lie down, but I was on fire with life and I couldn't stand to sit still for much more than a minute.
I remember arriving at my new yellow home on that Spring evening in 2004. My first stop was the grocery store where I picked up my sustenance for the week. I recall the satisfaction of finding carrot walnut muffins in the bakery and fresh ground organic coffee in the aisles. In those days, that was my primary nutritional concern -- coffee and muffins. I can't remember what other foods you might have found in my grocery cart that night, but I definitely remember the carrot walnut muffins and the fresh ground coffee. Right now, I can almost feel the buzz of that coffee's aroma as I drove the week's groceries back to the funeral home.
The second stop was the public library. My mission there was to find a yellow pages directory that would guide me to the nearest strip club. Mind you, I don't say this with pride. In fact, later, I may regret letting you in on this juicy little detail, but there's an important point being illustrated here. The old me couldn't stand to be alone with myself for a single night. On the very first night in a new town, the old me found my way to the back corner of a free library in search of ten dollar lap dances, all in a desperate attempt to fill that God sized empty hole in me. From this current bed bound place of sitting alone quietly for days on end, the new me sends my deepest compassion to that lovable, hungry, bewildered young man.
On the second night in town, after a full day of rehearsal, I got in the car and made the hour and ten minute trek to the middle of nowhere, Troy, Ohio. With the anticipation of slipping dollar bills into women's bikini straps, I was willing to go to any length. During the drive, I alternated between memorizing lines from the play and practicing music. I would steer the car with my knee while playing an English concertina with my hands and blowing a harmonica that was strapped around my neck. I can't remember all the details of all those trips to Troy, but on some nights, I'm certain there was marijuana involved in the picture. In a clouded high of piecing melodies together while navigating country roads, I was a musical madman on wheels.
I gotta say that I'm grateful that I made it through alive. Casey Jones, however, wasn't so lucky. Working overtime and driving too fast, he died as a young man in a train wreck in Vaughan, Mississippi. The accident was his fault. I, on the other hand, got to live to tell the story. It’s been 20 full bonus years since that time and now, as I'm dropped into this new chapter, I'm learning to appreciate a whole new version of myself. I guess we could call this version Hal 3.0.
Just to be clear, it hasn’t been an easy transition into this new life of limitation. I totally understand my mom's grief and I grieve with her. I find myself grieving at some point every day. But today, I'm willing to look for the good in this greatest challenge of my life. I'm willing to look for the awe in simple things. More and more, I'm becoming aware of the old patterns in me that stunted my growth, kept me grasping for more and separated me from others. Today, I'll practice being satisfied with what is, with all its imperfection, all its discomfort, all its mystery and all its wonder. Today, thanks to this illness, I'm grateful to be growing into a whole new Hal. I hope you’ll come visit sometime.
Thank you so much for reading. Thank you for listening. Remember… enjoy living in that body of yours. It’s not gonna be around forever. Enjoy whatever health you got and I’ll try to do the same. I’m reminded of that song, “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.” That’s how it is with me, for sure. Soak it up today. I love you. See you next time. Hal
A Whole New Hal