Confluence and Life

 

Copyright © 2024
by Ralph F. Couey

One of the most valuable uses of time for me is watching sunrises and sunsets.  Here in Hawai'i, they're nearly always perfect and beautiful.  Bright colors decorating the sky -- the pallet and skill of the Great Artist bringing peace and wonder to so many.  I've lived in a lot of places, and been to a lot more, but of all those mornings and evenings in far-flung locales, but nowhere are they more stunningly beautiful than here.  And twice per day, no less.

In a life where there never seems to be enough hours in the day, those times are when I force myself to slow down; to empty my mind of the mundane.  It is the best time to think, reflect, and contemplate, freed of the have-to-dos and gotta-be-theres, for a time at least.

I've had little time to write of late and I've missed that.  There are moments when I feel thoughts, ideas, and emotions throwing themselves around inside me like a caged animal.  It becomes imperative to take up pen and paper, if for no other reason than to set them free.  Also, at my age, it's important to act on them immediately because thoughts and ideas suddenly have acquired a shelf life.  Just as suddenly as they may blossom, they are likely to fade and vanish leaving behind a miasma of frustration and loss. And sadness.

Everyone needs catharsis, and writing has always been mine.  Beyond the sheer joy of creativity, expelling those restless thoughts to paper (or computer screen) is an act of healing.  That's one of the reasons I began this blog some 18 years ago. Looking now through those nearly 900 essays is a trip back in time.  I can see where I was and what I thought about, how events affected me.  Ruminations about the future have showed not only that I am anything but omniscient, but how fundamentally unpredictable life truly is.  At times, the future seemed tangible, something just out of reach, a trail marker pointing me forward.   Other times, life has needed to be lived one day at a time, even minute to minute because the hill immediately before me was too daunting.  The way forward from that place is mandated by the requirement to put aside doubts and fears and just climb that hill regardless of how steep or rocky.   Only from the top will I be able to grasp a clearer view ahead.  I know also that the struggle uphill is the price for clarity.  And in the midst of that struggle I know I will grow stronger, and perhaps wiser.

Lately my life has become a happier place, for which my job change is mostly responsible.  Leaving the state job proved to be a healthier choice.  I'm now a tour guide aboard the USS Missouri.  There was a significant pay cut involved that is now making itself felt.  But gone is the intrigue and drama, as well as the insidious intrusion of partisan politics.  In its place is the pure and straightforward task of telling the story of a remarkable ship and her important place in history.

In this job, I'm constantly face-to-face with the public, and I have discovered how much I missed that interaction.  A writer thrives on stories, the most interesting of which come from people.  Our visitors come from all over the world, each bringing  with them the details of their homes, their jobs, what kinds of things fill their days.  What seems boring and mundane to them becomes new and exciting; a new experience for me.  There are glimpses and insights into what it is like to live in Germany, France, China (both Chinas), Russia, Korea, Japan, even Wolbach, Nebraska, and dozens of other locales that have only been fuzzily understood, if at all.  Best of all are the veterans who come aboard.  Knowing that they are with another vet encourages them to unburden those things that they haven't been able to share with anyone else.  Sometimes those memories are accompanied by sadness, even tears.  But in that moment of confluence, we both find a piece of healing.  

Occasionally, there is a part of someone's life that intersects with a part of mine and suddenly there is a moment of sharing between strangers.  Perhaps it is a moment when we become more than just strangers.

My last two years in the Navy were spent aboard this battleship, so in a sense it was returning home.  The first day I came aboard and entered through a water-tight door, I was engulfed by that hauntingly familiar smell of steel, paint, and oil that is the atmosphere of any warship.  It was both familiar and comforting.  A lot of the ship is still blocked off due to the presence of various toxic materials, particularly asbestos.  But I can still explore all the other areas.  Around every corner, down every passageway, and in every compartment I find memories waiting to be relived -- experiences, friends, challenges -- all accompanied by the wistful reminder that this was the life of a much younger man.

But to be there, to relive it all puts me in touch with that young man again, to see him once again living a life he loved while at the top of his game.  Perhaps even to lean in, touch his shoulder ever so lightly, and whisper, "You did good, shipmate."