Lessons With Diana

By Will Whitted - /spring 1995

When I was in fourth or fifth grade I shared a wonderful crush with a girl named Diana Appleworth We sat next to each other in class, played together at recess and traded sandwiches over lunch. Sometimes I'd carry her books home from school even though she lived half a mile the other side of the school from me. She'd call almost every night and we'd do home work on the phone together. Being with Diana felt good; like milk and cookies.

We told just everybody how we were going to get married just as soon as we grew up. Maybe when we were 14. My Mom thought this was cute and probably it was but it seemed very serious to Diana and me. We decided that we would have three children: a boy then a girl and finally another boy. We worked hard to select just the right names. The names were perfect for the children we imagined even though I can't remember them now. 

Diana and her family were church going folks. When the church's Christian Youth Group organized a picnic and hay ride for youngsters, Diana quite naturally invited me to escort her. The event was to originate at the church yard and since that was about half way between our house's we agreed to meet there. Because it was still day time and because that's what kids did in those days, we would both walk there.

We had a great time. It started out much like playing at school but once the Sun went down we both realized that this was what a "real" date was like. Carried away as we were by the "grown-upness", is it any wonder that we wanted to play like we suspected adults would? We hid ourselves in the hay so that no one would see the secret grownup things we did. It must have worked; no one ever mentioned seeing us holding hands.  

At the end of that night we almost kissed on the lips. I think we would have too if we'd been ready to have our first child. As it was we hadn't decided whether we would live with my parents or with Diana's when we got married so we chose to wait until after we were married. 

Because it was now night and because that's how kids got around in those days, my Mom came to pick me up. I got in the car, thanked Diana for a wonderful time (almost without Mom's prompting, and Mom and I drove home. I told Mom everything and she smiled her approval because she knew Diana and I would soon be married. 

This dating stuff was fun. I remember feeling warm and special and wanted as I got ready for bed. 

The phone rang. Mom was smiling as she lifted the receiver but that face was soon replaced by a rapid succession of increasingly less welcome expressions. First she seemed pleasantly surprised to hear from whoever was on the other end of the phone. Next she seemed to not quite understand what she was hearing. Then she blushed in embarrassed comprehension of what was said. And finally she grew angry; very, very angry.  

As Mom put down the receiver I saw that it was even worse than I had thought. My Mom, the only girl in the world that I loved more than Diana, was angry with me! And she was angry about what I'd done to Diana! Does ten-year-old life get any worse than this? 

It seems that the Appleworth's believed that Diana would be safely delivered to their front door by her fledgling suitor and an accommodating parent. It seems that Mom appreciated the appropriateness of this course of action also but had been thrown off her pace when I didn't put Diana in the car with us.  

I don't think it ever occurred to anyone that Diana and I might not completely understand the subtleties of dating protocol. I don't know that Mom ever questioned her assumption that a senior Appleworth was close by in that dark parking lot. I do know that I started to be very concerned about violating the social customs of dating that night.  

Tonight, as I think back to those days, I wonder if Diana's Mom kept the two of us apart after that night or if it was entirely my shame. I know we didn't talk much in class the rest of that year. Somehow, we didn't sit together in the next year's class either. We found new recess companions. Diana started buying her lunch and eating in the cafeteria where sack-lunchers were discouraged. Sometimes I'd see her struggling with a double armful of books but my own struggling kept me unavailable. She never called me again.

 Somehow milk and cookies seemed less appealing after that night.

THE MOVE

A mortal said, "I have a plan ... ". God heard and He chuckled!

By Will Whitted - January 1997

I would get home Friday afternoon from a week at the Esalen Institute, switch suitcases, and beat feet to Berkeley, California where Sara would be patiently waiting with a big yellow rental truck filled with all her worldly accouterments. We'd jump right into the cab and buzz off into the frigid late-December night: next stop Brunswick, Maine. It had seemed like such a workable plan when concocted over a cup of tea three weeks earlier.

In spite of the help of half a dozen friends (or perhaps because of it) the truck was looking disturbingly empty when I arrived. For contrast, the house was looking quite full of unpacked flotsam and jetsam. I got cranky and spent the next several days being a retch as we finished boxing up the house and loading the truck.

The truck looked suspiciously overloaded. The springs were actually past flat and bending back the wrong way. The rental company had told Sara that the truck would hold a one-bedroom apartment full of stuff but they hadn't figured on the 200 box extent of a young professor's library I guess.

As the clock ticked past noon on Sunday and we were finally done at the house. We were both really tired but salvation seemed at hand. After all, we were ready to go and only a few days behind schedule. I was feeling bad about the way I'd been acting so I offered to buy Sara some lunch in partial reparation. I parked just a little bit too close to a tree and a major part (okay about half) of it broke off and fell to the curb at the feet of a very unhappy tree owner. I felt bad about hurting the tree and offered to make whatever reparations were possible. Then I settled into a half-hour tongue-lashing: first by the disgruntled owner and then by Sara. We ate a tense meal.

Back in the truck, fed, watered, not actually shouting at each other, and we were off. Sara took this opportunity to let me know that we needed to stop by the University and pack up a few things from her office and lab. What else was there for me to do? I got the flu. Did you know that the little cups that come with cough medicine hold 5 teaspoons of syrup not just one? Why would they do that when the maximum recommended dosage is 2 tsp.? I had read down the label to about, "Do not operate..." when I passed out cold at the foot bones of T. Rex in the museum of paleontology.

The rest did me a world of good. I had quite a crick in my neck but all the books were packed and ready for loading, it was only 10 p.m. and we had an invitation to dinner the next night with Sara's parents in Logan Utah, 800 snowy miles to the East. Eeehaa! Let's roll this puppy!

We coasted, okay skidded, on the -17 degree Fahrenheit glare ice through Truckee, Nevada. It occurred to me that I could go on being a complete ass-hole and make the whole trip painful. Or I could remember that I was there to help a friend to do what she needed to do. My projections about how it should be were, after all, of very little importance. When I get off it, I do a through job. I started to interact with the world in the frenzied, disorganized way that comes so naturally to Sara. I learned a good lesson. I've always thought that I was organized because it was easier and because I was lazy. Wrong! I just don't have the requisite skills to function in chaos. I lost my wallet twice in the next week and spent most of the time totally baffled by the world. I gained a lot of respect for the skill that Sara has in slickly negotiating a path through utter disaster.

Our first and only, real weather problem came in Colorado. We wanted to get to just past Denver on the second day out but as we approached Vail pass we were told that trucks of our behemothitude were not allowed without chains. The truck rental folks said that they would really prefer that we not use chains. So we sat about waiting for changed conditions. We did laundry and waited. We developed our pedicure skills and waited. We caught up on past issues of "People" magazine and waited. Still the pass was restricted. We talked to some locals who were pretty sure that the pass would be unrestricted by, oh, say May 15^th. We bought chains and left town the moment that I was able to find the truck keys.

The drive was horrific with ice on the road, snow blowing horizontally, and wipers that gave up entirely after about 3 minutes of fruitless attack on an ice-glazed windshield. One of us was clueless about the special considerations required of truck herders; the other was terrified by the funny white stuff in the air and the seemingly normal road surface beneath us that seemed so often to be moving slightly side-ways. We could have taught each other the useful things we each understood about the difficult and dangerous task we engaged together. Instead we took turns yelling out critical just-in-time instructions as we looked into the frozen face of an icy death.

It took almost 6 hours to traverse the 50 miles that got us out of the mountains and we were both emotionally demolished when the wheels skidded to a final rest. We had no words and little energy left. We just stood and hugged each other for about 20 minutes and then collapsed in a sleepy mound 'till morning.

I dreamed we had skidded off the road and been buried under six tons of scholarly reading material. In my dream I thought this not such a bad ending. At least I was no further than the breadth of a twenty six-volume set of the Encyclopedia Britannica from my best friend in the whole world.

When we woke, we realized that the success of our journey had truly been in the hands of God. A few hours after we departed the pass it was closed to traffic in both directions by a planned avalanche that got slightly out of hand and took 3 days to clear.

From that point on, it was clear sailing. We kept angling North to stay above the Blizzard of '96. Some days we'd go 150 miles; other days we'd cover 550. We just worked with the storm and managed to stay safe and sane. We had a chance to actually talk to each other about substantive issues without getting mired in the minutia of daily existence.

In some ways we re-enacted all the aspects of our emotional relationship. It was like the coda to a symphony. We re-visited all the things we've been to one another: mother/father, daughter/son, sister/brother, lover and friend. We reminded each other of these joys and sorrows and then let them go. Well mostly at any rate.

Bowdoin College is truly lovely in its winter trim of fluffy white cap and boots and accessories of clear and sparkling jewels. The buildings are so old. As a Left Coaster it is hard to imagine that Europeans were there in the early 1600s, reconstructing the world they remembered. The original buildings are old enough to be of the Gothic style but young enough to have escaped gargoyles. It's sort of a kinder, gentler Gothic.

I was sorry that I had to leave and it was also the time for me to go. We parted without tears and with a keen sense of the love we have for each other.

Strangers Met Along the Way

by Will Whitted ... October 12, 1998

The morning finds me enraptured by the sights and sensations of a waif-thin, shelf of concrete and stone. This anthrogenic belt-line twists and soars, turns and dives along a no-man's land between the sheer rock face of California's Pacific Coast Range and today's green-gray expanse of ocean. Seagulls dip and weave in the far distance as if their only job is to stitch sky to sea. This is Northern California's Pacific Coast Highway. Locals affectionately call her PCH.

 Aside from my simple love for her sensuality, beauty, and strength, I'm on PCH because she leads me to the Esalen Institute. I go for a weekend of play, for a chance to connect with heart-centered people, and most of all, for some time to get back in touch ... No, I don't know with what. I just know I've been feeling out of touch. Life is more often enervating than elevating of late.

 I stopped with my lunch at a secret beach known only to me I'm sure. Its secret is maintained, in large measure, by an absence of identifying signage, a steep one-mile trail, and a short, dark tunnel through a small mountainlett. From there a narrow path winds down to a tiny finger of the powerful Pacific. On my arrival I spread my lunch on a perfectly positioned rock and relax into my repast.

 My lunchroom is most attractively decorated. A confluence of uplifted polymorphic rock provides a lovely wall covering, while blue sea and white foam carpet the floor. The lighting today is subdued with thick garlands of cottony fluff drawn across the source of illumination. Countless native grasses and flowers yield colorful counter-point to the grays and reds and browns of the walls.

  As luck would have it, I arrived just in time to audition an improvised bit of music. It had never been heard before and, I suspect it will never be played in exactly the same way again. The exciting polytemporal rhythm was flawlessly maintained by the ocean's exploding surf. A tiny brook added its vocalizations, joyful in reunion with her mother. All the while, sea birds were supplying their counter punctual harmonies to spice up the mix.

 At first I thought this grandeur to have been assembled solely for my personal gratification, but during a quiet passage in the music, I heard another patron clapping and barking his approval from a distant table. Like me, this stranger was alone so I broached a conversation with him as seemed polite.

 We spoke at length of many things but our mutual focus seemed to resolve on issues of aloneness. Mister Sea Lion (I'm afraid I missed his proper given name) said he was waiting for a friend. I had to admit that, in this respect at least, we were sadly kindred souls. He, however, seemed a great deal more confident of her timely arrival. We explored the wicked-sharp edge that separates the peace of solitude from the despair of loneliness. Mister Lion professed to an abiding preference for the solitary life. He made excellent points vis-à-vis freedom, quiet, and never having to share your fish. I was nearly convinced of his sincerity until he was betrayed by the formation of nascent tears at the corners of sad, brown eyes.

 I offered a hug but he demurred and, citing pressing affairs elsewhere slipped into the carpet and disappeared. Too bad, I think I know him a little now. I think we could have been close friends. I wished him joy along his path.

 The concert continues but I have to leave. She calls to me now. She offers to wrestle playfully and promises to free my spirit and lull my angst if only I'll come and slip along her sensual curves again. How would I refuse? PCH and I are lovers this day.

by Will Whitted - December 1998

The annul transformation of fall into winter is well under way. The last tattered, wind-beaten, leaves cling to the plum tree as if too frightened to abandon their long-safe, now-lonely, home and complete their journey of transition from air to earth. The season's molten-pewter sky teases with its promise of a cleansing rain only to hold back at the last moment and move on, solidifying into drops over other yards than mine.

 My winter wardrobe of emotions too is coming out of storage. Each year the process seems faster. The sadness at saying good bye to fall lasts a little less long. The melancholy of aloneness shifts into the contentment of solitude at a blissfully increased pace. A protective winter coat thickens sooner that I may frolic in the puddles along this portion of my path without missing too many opportunities to make a splash.

 For some reason at this time of year I always find myself reflecting on the beauty of relationships with old friends and past loves. I suppose it's a bit like a cup of hot chamomile tea on a chilly day; it warms me appreciably from my middle out. This year's reveries cluster about my memories of my paternal grandfather.

 Howard was a man of small stature, few words and, as far as I could tell, absolutely no attachments to the opinions others held of him. He would have been 100 years old had he lived 'till this year. In my less-enlightened youth, I ascribed his ability to do anything he intended to his being small but wiry. Then, for a time, I saw him spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually, as simply as the strongest man I'd every known. This winter it finally came to me that his simple secret lay not in strength at all, but rather in his total detachment from weakness. If his daily burdens were carried with grace and ease it was because they weren't piled on top of a lifelong collection of attachments. In essence, Howard was able to express all the human potential that was given to him at birth.

 I feel a connection to this gentle, loving rock that goes far beyond the familial association of my birth. Even today my tears flow in the joy of remembering the love he unabashedly allowed me to see in his eyes and in his briefest touch. I miss Howard more than any of the other people I've known, loved, and lost. Only now do I begin to understand why this is so. With no one else I've parted from, have I the sense that the separation is permanent or even very long term. Some sense tells me that I will be with these souls again in short order and that we will again love and quarrel and comfort one-another. With Grandpa my sense is that he is done with the segment of his path that conjoins my own. So I'm sad and happy and diligent in my work to retain these memories even as I struggle to loose my attachments to them.

 Another leaf, seduced by this morning's blustery storm, abandons its link to the branch that once nourished it. A last red-brown, arboreal, ward dances away in a gust's embrace to begin the next phase of life's brief cotillion. We surrender our attachments to what once was our reality so that we may joyfully engage with our truth of this new moment.