“Hello darkness, my old friend.  I’ve come to talk to you again.”

The quiet duo, almost morose in tonality, began to sing in my earphones as I walked my accustomed route late one night recently.  I almost stopped short.

Oh, it’s not a new song, the recording having been made nearly fifty years ago; it’s not even as if I haven’t heard it a thousand times or more in my lifetime.  It’s just that I heard the words in the right setting for the first time on that night.

In the dark.

In a dark mood.

Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel wrote and recorded “The Sound of Silence” in the years just after the assassination of President Kennedy.  It was a dark time for many in our nation and they captured the fear and angst of a generation.

“In restless dreams I walked alone,
Narrow streets of cobblestone…”

The anguish is almost palpable.

I mention the setting simply to reiterate that both the writing and the singing come out of the darkness.  Mr. Simon admits to beginning with the words quoted above as he spoke them into the darkness of his bathroom, where he often sat and wrote in his early days of performing.

My writing will never achieve the stature of his, but often it too comes out of the darkness of night.  Frequently, it proceeds from the darkness of my spirit as well.  By that, I mean that there are places in my heart where all is not gaiety and party favors.

I think it would be an error to cast this darkness as always harmful or evil.

Sadness exists, in spite of our efforts to banish it.

I think that’s as it should be.

As I read my own words written in these times, I have to admit that some of the most powerful sentiments I feel come out of that same darkness.  Many of the essays, wrenched out of my forays into the dim, uncertain night are, to my mind, the most memorable.

You may not agree and that’s fine.  There is room for a different perspective.

For, you see, from the same mind (at times) comes lightness and exuberance.  Will you allow me to follow up for just a moment with another example from the writing of the artists I mentioned above?

Perhaps one of the happiest songs to come from that same era is “The 59th Street Bridge Song.”  With the goofiness of Hello lamppost, whatcha knowin’?  I’ve come to watch your flowers growin’, we’re just …kicking down the cobblestones right along with the carefree duo.

From the pen and mouths of the same artists who lived in the intense darkness, came this joy and exhilaration for life.  It seems possible that the sentiments of both songs took place on the same route, too.  Notice the narrow streets in the lyrics of the first?

Yep.  The very same streets of cobblestone that the duo was kicking down in the second song.

I thought about that on a sunny day recently, as I rode my bicycle with a couple of old friends.  We followed a lot of the same route I often walk (and run) at night.  You might say the difference was indeed, day and night.  Spirits were light as we talked and laughed, first one person riding ahead, then another.  When the road allowed we rode three abreast to share the enjoyment.

Carefree, the miles flew by.

We want to spend all our time enjoying life.  The fact is, just as half of our life is spent in daylight and half in the night, we will all experience our share of joy and pain.  Both are valuable and essential to learning and growing.  Both come whether we will them to or not.

Will we learn from the darkness, or will we become bitter and angry because of it?  Will we carry the joy of the light into the dark of the night, or is the night doomed to be devoid of hope?

We choose.  We determine the manner in which we face the darkness and silence.  It may indeed, become our old friend.  That said, it does not have to become our destiny and our hell here on earth.

One other thought hits me as I write this:  Friends are a gift from a beneficent God, are they not?  Even the dark times are lighter when they are around us.  I’m beginning to think that perhaps old age may be less onerous with a few of these fine people around.

I think I’ve still got a few sessions of kicking down the cobblestones left in me, too.  I’m even feeling a little like that carefree duo of yesteryear.  For the time being, at least.

We’ll have to work together on keeping it going.  Twenty years from now, we may still be singing those final words.

“Feeling groovy.”

“Everything has it wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.”
(Helen Keller ~ American author/educator, both blind and deaf ~ 1880-1968)

“But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night…”
(from “The Return of the King” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English educator/author ~ 1892-1973)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

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The clock ticks away the seconds.  I lean back in my easy chair and listen as the pendulum swings.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…

The speed of the mechanical noise is quite fast.  And hypnotic.  Before I know it, three minutes have passed.  But, as I sit, another sound catches my ear, running almost concurrently with the ticking of the old mantel clock in the room where I’m lounging.

I listen to the newly perceived sound, recognizing that it is actually running a bit slower than the one which lulled me into inactivity a few minutes ago.  It is the sound of the old kitchen clock out in the dining room.

That’s funny.  That clock ticks more slowly than the mantel clock, but it runs faster.  That doesn’t make sense at all.  In addition to that, I habitually move the hands of the mantel clock forward by almost half an hour a day.  It’s the only way it will ever be close to telling the true time whenever I glance at the hands.

I never trust the tale it tells.

I continue to listen.  Slowly and steadily, the sound from both clocks falls on my ear drums.  It’s still a mystery.  The ancient clock in the dining room actually seems to be going more slowly, if I go by the sound.  But, I know that it keeps proper time.  Week after week, month after month, year after year, I can look at the time indicated on that clock and set all the other clocks in the house by it.

It is a timepiece worthy of my trust.

I wind the trustworthy clock no more than once a week.  Every seven days, twenty-one twists of the key–twenty-one, no more, no less–and it is prepared to run for the week.

The clock on the mantel?  I must wind it every three or four days.  Never the same number of revolutions.  Never.  Still, if I don’t wind it, it will stop.  But when I do wind it, it runs at the wrong speed.

The question comes to mind.

Which clock do I like better?

Well?  Which one do you suppose?

Another question immediately arises in my thoughts.

Why do I even keep that troublesome old clock around?

It certainly takes more effort to keep it going.  I have to fiddle with it every day.

Every day.

And still,  I can’t trust it.  At any given time, the errant timepiece could be off by two or even twenty-two minutes.

I can’t trust it.

I haven’t answered either question, have I?

I’ll tackle the second one first.  I keep the clock around because I think it just might, one day, run at the correct speed.  I have done everything I know to insure that, but in the dark recesses of my mind, I remember someone saying if you keep moving the hands of a slow clock ahead, eventually it will run faster.  I don’t know if that’s true or not (and I hope no one is foolish enough to check the Internet and tell me it isn’t).  I’m not sure I even care if it’s true or not anymore.  I’m just going to keep trying.

Which brings me to my first question.

You will probably be surprised to find I don’t like either one better than the other.  One keeps good time, the other one doesn’t.  It doesn’t matter.  I’m going to care for both of them.

I can’t imagine ever getting rid of either one.  The one that keeps good time is a joy and a blessing.  The one that can’t be trusted needs me.  I think possibly I need it.

Somehow–I can’t quite put my finger on it–I feel a sort of kinship to that messed up old clock.
____________________

I wonder if there is any point in writing more tonight.

Tears come as the truth I couldn’t quite put my finger on a moment ago becomes evident.  (I don’t only write for the benefit of my readers, you know.)  Memories of an ill-mannered child, a rude teenager, even an arrogant young man–all the same person–spill into my consciousness.  Deeds I will not recount in public are played out on the stage in my head, and the shame is overwhelming.

I can’t be trusted.

Still, the Master of the house keeps me in full view.  Daily–hourly–yes, even moment by moment, He has to fiddle and make adjustments.  He keeps me.

I get to stay.
____________________

Someday, I hope the old clock will function as it should.  I’m not giving up on it.

He won’t give up on us either.

We get to stay.

“(Love) always protects, always hopes, always trusts, always perseveres.”
(I Corinthians 13:7 ~ NIV)

“Many that live deserve death.  And some that die deserve life.  Can you give it to them?  Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement.  For even the very wise cannot see all ends.”
(from “The Fellowship of the Ring” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ British author/professor ~ 1892-1973

I was angry as I ran down the steep hillside into the valley with its idyllic stream and beautiful gazebos rising from the wooded lawns.  I live in a beautiful little town, but that wasn’t what I was focused on at this particular moment.

Photo: Diliff

“Every mom aspires to be the World’s Greatest Mom, and by some crazy quirk of logic, most succeed.”*

“Well?  What are you waiting for–an engraved invitation?”

Photo: Abhisek Sarda

The quiet young man glanced up at me, almost in embarrassment.  I was teasing, but he couldn’t be expected to know that.  Standing in front of the counter at my music store, the teenager looked almost frightened, but he asked the question anyway.

“Do you mind–would it be all right if I played it?”

He motioned toward the thousand dollar guitar hanging on the wall behind me, seemingly worried that I might refuse.  I had already told him he could take down anything he wanted to play, but this was different.  He wasn’t sure my blanket license extended to the instruments behind the counter.

I laughed.  “Of course you can play it.  I told you anything you wanted to play, didn’t I?”

Most of my customers know me well enough to see through my smart-aleck words, but this young man was new here.  He had only been in before with his dad, but on this day was on his own.  He wanted to be sure he played by the rules.

He waited for me to hand him the guitar, but I was busy with another customer and, jerking my chin in the direction of the hangers on the wall behind me, told him to get it himself.  He walked gingerly behind the counter and reached up to lift the beautiful instrument from its place in the row of better-than-average instruments back there.

Carrying the guitar as if it would fall apart in his hands, he rounded the corner to plug it into an amplifier.  I listened to the sweet chords and melodies that came from his ministrations to the pretty chunk of wood with strings attached and smiled.

This is what I live for.  Well, this and the odd bowl of ice cream once in awhile.

The young man, oblivious to the activity going on around him–a little girl swishing past, headed into her piano lesson, the postal person, toting an armful of plastic tubs to replace the ones full of packages she would haul out momentarily–sat and lovingly played that guitar for half an hour.  I still don’t understand what it is about music that carries one away like that, but, having felt the same thing myself countless times, I could only muse enviously as I went about my tasks.

He would have played longer, but his dad, a rough farmer who jumped out of an old pickup truck towing a stock trailer, stuck his head in the front door and beckoned impatiently to him.  Jerked back to reality, the boy reached down and, flicking off the switch on the amplifier, unplugged the precious instrument.  He then carried it, just as carefully as before, back to the counter.

The kid just stood there, waiting for my unspoken permission, finally given in the form of a head jerk, to go behind the counter again and replace the pricey guitar back in its accustomed spot on the wall.  Then he headed for the exit.  I told him to come back any time and he just ducked his head shyly.

A few moments later, I looked up from the job I was doing and saw him there again.  He was standing in the same spot he had occupied when I had made my smart-mouthed comment to him earlier.  As before, he waited for me to speak first.

“Well?”  I asked roughly.

“I just wanted to say thank you for letting me play your guitar, sir.”

He turned on his heel and was gone.

Did I say I lived for the moments when the guitar is played by talented hands?  I’ve changed my mind.

I live for moments like this.

We don’t talk about gratitude much, do we?  I sit now and wonder–why is that?

The answer comes back to me instantly.  Gratitude puts us in debt.  No.  It acknowledges we are in debt.  We don’t like that.  We like to think we are self sufficient.

We want to be in control in every circumstance.

Gratitude proves we are not.
____________________

I can’t consider this event without another story leaping to mind.  I’m sorry.  I spent my formative years in Sunday School.  How could I not think about it?

The Teacher was walking with His followers toward the big city, when He noticed a group of men who stood a long distance away, asking for Him to have pity on them.  It almost appears that He didn’t do anything for them Himself, as He jerked His head toward the temple and the men running it.  He told them to go and show themselves to the religious leaders.  Nothing more.  Go and ask the priest to look at them.

Every one of them went, ten in all.  As they went, their horrible skin condition was healed.

Nine of them, we never learn anything more about.  Nothing.

I wonder–were they grateful at all?  Do you suppose they gave credit to the Teacher for their recovery?  Did they brag that they had done it themselves by starting toward the place where the priest was?

I don’t know.  I do know they never said a simple thank you.  Never–at least, not directly to the One who was responsible for what happened.

Not a single thank you.  Well, there was one.  The odd man in the bunch, the shy one, the quiet one, the foreigner.  One thank you from the whole bunch.

He came back immediately and fell at the feet of Jesus, praising God.

Just one question further.  Which of those men owed a debt to the Teacher?  You know the answer.  It was more than one.

Yet, only one acknowledged his debt.
____________________

Day after day, people come through my door.  Any number of them push their way behind my counter to pull guitars off the wall.

It’s okay.  I tell them to do that.  They just never ask anymore.  One man  frequently squeezes behind me while I’m ringing up sales at the register.  When they get done, they hang the guitars back on the wall.

Almost never will any of them say thank you.  I’m okay with that.  I don’t insist on it, nor will I ever hold it against them.

But, it’s hard to keep from making the comparison, is it not?

Gratitude is a remarkable thing.  It enriches the thankful, as well as the benefactor.  I’m convinced of it.

Oh.  The boy was back two days later.  He came and stood at the counter again.  He said three words as he laid his hundred dollar bills down on the plate glass surface.

“I want it.”

I said two words to him as he walked out the store, carrying his beautiful guitar.

“Thank you.”

As the red-haired lady who raised me always said, turnabout is fair play.

It’s a debt I’ll gladly acknowledge.

Others will come to mind, I’m sure.

“Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.”
(from Winnie-the-Pooh ~ by A. A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

“Give thanks to the Lord, because He is good.
His faithful love continues forever.”
(Psalm 136:1 ~ NIRV)

© Paul Phillips.  He’s Taken Leave.  2014.  All Rights Reserved.

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We had unfinished business to wrap up, so I wasn’t surprised to see my friend today.  I was surprised when he talked instead about a personal project.

“We got them out of storage on Saturday, Paul.  Man, they were filthy!”

I looked quizzically at him.  He grinned as he realized I was in the dark about what had been in storage.

“I went two whole miles yesterday!  Two!”

Again, the look of utter stupidity on my face gave the impetus for him to keep going.

“It’s the first time we’ve had the bikes out in over a year!”

The fog lifting, I came to life and began to understand his former comments.  He had gotten his bicycle out, cleaned it up, and ridden it for a couple of miles.  I was still a bit bewildered about why he was so animated regarding the accomplishment, but I thought I should play along and see if all would be revealed as we talked.

It was.

The middle-aged man turned to his friend who had come through the door with him and explained to him (and, unwittingly, to me).

“When I was in here on Saturday, Paul told me about his recent quest to get healthy.  He told me he was hoping to ride about ten miles or so that afternoon.  I decided if he could do ten, I could do two.  I was puffing, but I did it!”

His buddy was obviously impressed, slapping him on the shoulder and exclaiming good naturedly, “Way to go, man!”

I added my praise, but mentally, I was still assessing the situation.  I was the one who had ridden over ten miles.  Why was he getting the praise for his two measly miles?  But, even as my selfish spirit was grappling with that inequity, my heart was beginning to grasp two truths.

“Tandem” by Ramon Casas

First:  Those two miles were two miles more than my friend had ridden in over a year!  That was something to celebrate, if only in a small way.

Second:  I had something to do with that accomplishment!  He had come to report the good news to me, recognizing my part in it.

The selfish thoughts faded quickly into the jumble of my thoughts, as the magnitude of what was happening became apparent almost immediately.  I have talked many times about wanting to influence people around me to do good things, but this was almost mind boggling in its simplicity.

Two days ago, I mentioned to him that I was planning an activity and gave a sketchy background of what was driving me to participate in the endeavor.  I talked about losing weight and feeling better, not with the intent of convincing him, but simply to share the joy that has come along with the life change.

Today, he reported he had acted on the basis of that casual conversation, announcing further that he intends to keep going.  Time will tell if he is able to follow through.  I’ll keep checking on his progress.

The specific subject of fitness has almost nothing to do with the reality of what I learned today, though.  That reality is a lesson I believed I already knew.  It was actually just the day before I spoke with this man about my lifestyle change that I talked with another friend about what I have always believed was my purpose in life.  Almost with thinking, I said the words.

“I believe every person who comes through that door enters for a reason.  It’s not just to make a purchase, either.  I hope that I can influence them for good.  I almost think it’s a ministry of sorts.”

Those words have come from my mouth before.  I’ll say them again.

I don’t think I’ll say them with the same flippant attitude.

You have to understand the lesson I learned today.  It’s not just when I think about influencing people that I do it.  They are influenced by every word that comes from my mouth.

Every word.

Can I just stop there and let that sink in for a moment?

Every word–and every act.

Need another moment?

I am ecstatic that my friend went cycling.  I am amazed when some little tip I give to a customer leads them to develop a skill that I’ve never been able to master.  I hope that every positive thing I’ve ever said yields fruit in the life of the person to whom it was uttered.

I wonder though–what about the excuses I’ve made for poor behavior?  What about the snippy comments I’ve made behind people’s back to someone standing by?  How about that time I lost my temper completely and gave that fellow a piece of my mind?

I wonder, do those things influence folks too?

I don’t have to answer that, do I?  For some reason, my mind jumps to the name of the best-selling book, written nearly eighty years ago by Dale Carnegie, entitled “How to Win Friends and Influence People”.  I haven’t read the book, but the title itself gives plenty of food for thought.

I want to win friends.  I also want to influence people–to do good.  My problem is that I frequently make enemies and influence people to anger, or to cheat, or to lie.  Every word and every act, whether good or evil, wins and influences.  I don’t get to choose which ones have an influence.  They all do.

What I get to choose is how to act.  What I get to choose is how to speak.

I can’t help but remember the old television ads for the investment firm, now defunct, E F Hutton.  The ads all finished with the statement, “When E F Hutton speaks, people listen.”

What I’m saying here is that when I speak, people listen.

When you speak, people listen.

They act on what we say every day.

I wonder, will tomorrow bring another joyful revelation of positive influence for me?  Or possibly, the realization that a life has been ruined by words I said?

If I turn and face the years past, I can point to situations where, over and over, I wielded my influence for selfish, wicked reasons.  I cringe at the thought and the prospect that one day I may learn of the disaster wrought by my words and actions.

But, I’m reminded that there is One who influenced the world permanently for good by His entire life, and then by His death.  That influence covers mine today.  Grace and forgiveness for the past are found as His influence takes effect.  It will suffice.

Once again, I turn to the future.  Tomorrow is a new day, with nothing written on its clean page.

Yet.

Win.  Influence.

There is still work to do.  You’re coming too, aren’t you?

“If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them.”
(James 4:17 ~ NIV)

“We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why.”
(Stephen King ~ American author)

I have words welling up inside of me.  They have been spilling out for a couple of hours already tonight.  I am ashamed to say that I faithfully wrote them all down on pages in front of me–and then deleted every single one of them.

Photo: Jeannean Ryman

I’m a failure.

I never expected anything different.  All is just as I have always envisioned.  Some things were just destined to be.

Before you start sending those encouraging notes, before you put on your best there–there face, give me a chance to explain.

I’m a failure at being a failure.

“Now,” you say.  “Now, you’re just bragging.”

I don’t mean to brag.  It is an admission of failure.  I say it with contrite intent.  I intend it to be an apology.

The magnitude of my ineptness has become clear to me today.  The revelation began this morning.  I sat down at my desk in the music store and, as I frequently do, re-read what I had posted last night for my friends–those who are so inclined–to peruse and digest.  The further I read, the less I liked what I had written.  I became convinced that no one would think it worthwhile.  I assumed that over the span of the day, it would neither garner any attention, nor acquire any indications of approval.

I deleted the entire post.

Quickly.

Quietly.

You didn’t notice, did you?  Very few of you had any idea of my failure to produce a good article, since the evidence had disappeared into the ether.

I don’t want to be a failure.  Therefore, I will not allow myself to do things that will show me up as one.
____________________

The point was driven home again this afternoon as a customer laid the old guitar case on the counter of my music store.  Inside the case lay a gorgeous vintage guitar worth thousands of dollars.

“I want you to modify it for me, Paul.”  The aging man looked earnestly into my face.  “I know you.  You’ll take good care of my baby.”

I am torn.

On the one hand, my customer has confidence in my abilities to achieve the task.  It is an exhilarating feeling–being aware of the trust that another person places in your skill.

On the other hand,  it is a daunting prospect.  As I gaze at the beautiful instrument, lying in the case before me, my stomach tightens up and I can’t suppress a tiny shudder.  What if I make a mistake?  What if my drill slips?  What if I butcher up this wonderful old guitar beyond recall?

I may fail.

I’m not well equipped to deal with failure.  I’ll sulk.  I’ll mope around.  I may even lose faith in my ability to do other things I have been doing all of my life.  Just the prospect of failure is terrifying.

More and more recently, I find myself telling people, like my friend on the other side of the counter, that I cannot fit their needs into my schedule.  Well obviously, all they have to do is to look around them.  My business (and life) is stacked high with jobs which are waiting to be done.

But, time is not really the issue, is it?

I simply cannot abide the thought that I may fail.  I cannot be a failure.

I have, instead, become a failure at being a failure.  If you never attempt the risky undertakings, you cannot fail.

Problem solved!  No risk, no failure.  Ergo, I will not take risks.

I am safe.

You do see the problem, don’t you?  Safe is nice.  For awhile.  Safe doesn’t raise a ruckus, doesn’t rock any boats.  Safe is–well–comfortable.  You know, like house slippers.  Comfortable.

And, therein lies the problem.  House slippers are okay for lying around the house.  They even let me shuffle my way into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a cookie.  Okay, maybe a bowl of ice cream, too.

House slippers aren’t very efficient for hiking in, are they?  I’m not likely to wear them when I go for a jog, either.  The old comfy mules wouldn’t be my choice for riding the highway on a motorcycle, for that matter.

In short, the safe, comfortable house slippers won’t get me anywhere.

Funny.  Risk is all around us.  Even funnier–we never accomplish anything without taking risks.

Did I say that I wasn’t well equipped for failure?  It is not, of course, true.

Did someone say failure is not an option?  That also is a lie.  If we live, we will undoubtedly experience failures.  It is an option.  In fact, it is a certainty.

But, what’s not an option is sitting safely on the couch, never really living.  What’s not an option is lying about, defeated by one failure, when success is just as likely to be the result the next time we attempt the deed.

For, in achieving what we call safety, comfort, we really place ourselves in danger of the greatest failure we will face individually and corporately.

That danger is complacency.  Achieving nothing.  And, as certain as I once thought myself that I wasn’t equipped for failure, I am that much more certain our Creator did not design us to sit in complacency and safety, doing nothing.

I’m not sure about you, but I don’t want to waste the short time I have left on this planet.  I don’t want to look back and see nothing of note that has been accomplished.

Life is risky.  Life is uncertain.

There is much to be lost, but there is more to be gained.

Time to start moving again.

I think I’ll see what I can do with that guitar.

There may be other tasks needing our attention, as well.

Got your walking shoes on?

“Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.”
(from Henry IV, part 1 ~ William Shakespeare ~ English poet/playwright ~ 1564-1616)

“He who observes the wind will not sow, and he who regards the clouds will not reap…In the morning sow your seed, and at evening withhold not your hand, for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good.”
(Ecclesiastes 11:4, 6 ~ ESV)

© Paul Phillips.  He’s Taken Leave.  2014.  All Rights Reserved.

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