Yesterday I took a walk through Doylestown. I happen to pass the home of one of the families whose children created drawings to illustrate my story, “Ice Cream Mud”. The mother was out raking leaves and the children were riding bicycles and playing with friends. I stopped to say hello and listen as she described her busy life with husband, children and work. We had a neighborly exchange and I continued on my way.

Walks are a good time for reflections. As I headed up the hill toward the heart of Doylestown, I started to reflect back to the time in my life when I had two young children, a wife and the beginning of my work as an oral storyteller. Life was filled with early morning risings, juggling childcare with work schedules and chores around the house.

As I topped the hill and headed into the center of Doylestown my reflection turned to thoughts about life when my children left home to start their own lives separate from their parents. It was during this time that my first marriage ended and I found myself living alone. It was a difficult experience, but I was still busy with my storytelling programs in schools.

This time lasted nearly four years until I met Nancy. We bought the house on Clemens Road and soon were married. Life with Nancy was not as hectic as my first marriage. There were no children in the house and, as the years passed, my life slowed down when I stopped presenting school assembly programs.

By the time I had started back down the hill past the Mercer Museum, I had moved my reflection to thoughts about being alone again. I asked myself: Are there advantages to living alone at the age of seventy-seven? Three nights ago I woke up at 3:00 A.M. I turned on the bedroom light and read for half an hour without disturbing my mate’s sleep. I fix and eat my meals when I am hungry. I don’t have to consider the wishes of another. It would be easy to become very self-absorbed. I don’t know that is a good way to live.

I could now see the roof of my house on Clemens Road through the fall foliage along Green Street. My last reflection for my walk considered the subject of prayer. In particular, I reflected on the idea of “The Jesus Prayer”––that is a repetitive phrase, silently expressed throughout the day. My prayer is: “Lord Jesus have mercy on my soul, open my heart to others, and lift my soul to thee”. I think I learned about this practice by reading the Philokalia many years ago, but the practice is not unique to the Christian tradition. I have not always been disciplined in the practice of this prayer. Being old and less distracted by relationships, work and success, I can hope to further explore this practice. So ended a forty minute walk through Doylestown and the reflections that occurred along the way. What do you think about when you go for a walk?

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Thirteen years ago, at the age of sixty-four, I decided to stop promoting my stories for children and start to work on stories for the last third of life. Out of that decision grew the Jung performances, a memoir (E-book) and a long fantasy story (paperback book) about a family of mill mice. During those years I also supported my mother to the end of her life. An unpublished journal–shared only with friends and family–was the creative result from that life experience. It has been a busy time in my life, full of performances, travel, gatherings at the Clemens Road house and all shared with my mate for life.

Nancy and I did not meet until we were in our mid-fifties–old enough to rationally evaluate a mate, but young enough to be amazed by the sexual energy generated by our coming together. We both kept journals during that time, so it is possible for me to go back and find the backing for these declarations. But perhaps more than the rational or emotional common ground, we immediately identified a passion for good conversation and sharing our lives with others. So for twenty-two years we enjoyed and gave thanks for having found a mate for the last third of life!

This brings me back to the subject of stories from this time in life. For the past thirteen years I have created and told stories about the process of ageing and finding meaning in a time of life when my energy for innovation and bringing new projects to life is waning. It is more a time to reflect and preserve the work of the past. Much of the past thirteen years has been spent thinking, talking and writing about Grandpa Jung’s idea of individuation–that is, the idea that one’s life is about becoming who we are meant to be, not who others in our family or society want us to be. Here there is a strong sense that we all have gifts–I might say God-given- and life is about discovering these gifts and the path in life where they lead us. For me it was a life telling stories to children. With a fair amount of angst I found my way and followed my path in life.

There is another part of this journey through these last years of life. This is the eventual meeting with Death. We all have brief encounters with Death throughout our lives. For me it was the deaths of relatives, the most moving being the death of my mother, Ruby, that I mentioned above. I sat by her side and experience her last breath of life. But the sting of death then was ameliorated by having Nancy in my life. I could go home and talk with her about the experience.

Today I have no one to share my feelings about Nancy’s death, or maybe it is that I cannot talk with anyone about the experience I am having. For this reason, I will write about it and hope to find a measure of solace in the act of telling the story. This event in Nancy and my life began in June of 2018 when she received a diagnosis of stage four esophageal cancer. We immediately cancelled a planned trip to Scotland and a backyard storytelling performance set for that early summer. Nancy started a year of multiple chemotherapy treatments and one of radiation. Because of the growth in her esophagus Nancy struggled to find ways to swallow her food. Doctors talked about a feeding tube, but she preferred to be creative in finding ways to eat regularly–egg drop soup from the local Chinese restaurant was one of her eating solutions. Her doctors were amazed at her ability to keep herself strong and continue to live a fairly normal life. This struggle–Nancy did not like warrior language to describe her dealing with cancer–lasted for about fourteen months. It was during the first week in August of 2019 that she became dehydrated and weak from not being able drink or eat normally. Finally she made the decision to go to the hospital for care.

Nancy was in Doylestown Hospital for ten days. They began intravenous feeding and liquids to hydrate and nourish her body again. She gained some strength, but nothing like the normal Nancy. She was dizzy, had headaches and felt unsure on her feet. Finally, they decided to do an MRI of her brain and they discovered a tumor on it. Now there was talk about an operation, radiation and again the feeding tube. Nancy rejected the operation and radiation, but accepted the feeding tube and asked to go home.

During ten days in the hospital, I visited with Nancy three times a day. As the days passed, communication between us became more and more difficult. Nancy was agitated by the other patient in her room, an elderly woman who was hard of hearing. When her family came to visit, they talked loudly and long. I don’t think they were bad people, just a family like us trying to get through a difficult time in their lives. Nancy withdrew and seemed to not want to communicate with me. When she did talk, it was often something that I had forgotten to do or done wrong. This was so unlike Nancy, I knew I had to get her out of the hospital as soon as possible.

Finally the decision was made that she could go home under hospice care. Several hospice agencies would not accept her as a patient because of the feeding tube. Finally, Doylestown Hospital Hospice accepted her and I brought her home to 68 Clemens Road on August 15, 2019. The whole process took about six hours. It was a difficult day, but at the end Nancy was settled on a hospital bed in her study with her books and pictures all around her. Most important, it was quiet, with no roommate and family carrying on inane conversations.

So began two and a half weeks of caring for Nancy in our home. I could have hired extra nursing care to supplement the hospice people who came four to five times a week for half-hour visits. I chose to do the major part of Nancy’s care myself. Why did I make that decision? I felt that it was what Nancy wanted–though I do not think that we discussed it. Also, I do not like standing around and watching others do what I think I can do myself.

How can I describe the last two and a half weeks of Nancy Jo Anderson’s life? First, I will say that I can only describe it from the perspective of the one who loved and cared for her in this end time of life. Coming home did have a positive effect on Nancy’s disposition. For the first days she was more content. I remember her commenting on the beauty of the clear sky outside her window. I asked if she wanted to listen to any particular music or have visits from friends. Her response was not strongly negative, but she made it clear that she was content to be alone in a quiet environment. I limited the visits and started the practice of music on a player in the living room. This way I could enjoy the music and she could ignore my music as she often did during the twenty-two years that we lived together.

My challenge during this time was to learn some basic nursing skills on the fly. I thank the hospice nurses who were patient in teaching me. My first task was to learn how to measure the meds and get them into the feeding tube. This was a continuous process, every three to four hours around the clock. Because the feeding tube continuously pumped nutrients into Nancy, I had to learn how to control the pump to change from nutrients to meds and back again. The process was often complicated by the nutrients getting clogged in the tube and I had to flush the tube before and after the meds.

Two days into the hospice care we started to have problems with a leak at the point where the feeding tube interred Nancy’s body. This meant that we had to change the dressing around the portal several times a day. Here I will claim some credit for my own ingenuity. The dressings used by the nurses had limited ability to absorb the leaking fluids; I started to substitute a dressing created by cutting up a Depend disposable underwear. It was thicker and could absorb more of the leaking fluid. When one of the nurses saw what I had created, she said, “great idea!”

The nursing chore that I feared most was helping Nancy to go to the bathroom–particularly cleaning her after a bowel movement. Because Nancy had not eaten solid foods for more than two weeks when I brought her home, bowel movements were rare, but still important for the functioning of her body. For the first week of home care, Nancy was able to use a walker with my support to go to the bathroom and she did have one bowel movement. By the second week she was too weak to use the walker and we started to use a portable potty. Let us say that I was able to put aside my fears of helping Nancy to go to the bathroom. It was also during the second week that the decision was made to stop using the feeding tube and going to the bathroom was soon not an issue.

Nancy’s last days were made difficult for me the caregiver because she had a drive-the only way I can describe it–to sit up and get out of bed. One time I found her sitting at the side of the bed with her hands on the walker that I had place there. Eventually she did not have the strength to sit up, but she continued to reach out and try to sit up in the bed. The nurse described this as a form of anxiety and recommended an increase in medication for the behavior. For me, this behavior seemed an exhibit of Nancy’s will to live. It was about four days before she died, she whispered one of the last thoughts she shared with me: “I will die in two days.” The words were softly spoken and without an expression of fear or anxiety.

Nancy died on September 2, 2019 at about 5:30 P.M. That last day of body and soul as one, Nancy was calm though her breathing was labored. The nurse said that it was a collection of fluids in her chest and she recommended a pill that I could put under her tongue to help reduce the fluids in her upper respiratory tract. It was near supper time that I decided to try the nurse’s recommended medication. I tried to put the pill under Nancy’s tongue, but her tongue was not flat in her mouth. I tried spritzing a little water on the pill to melt it and then I went out to the kitchen to fix some food for supper. When I came back in fifteen minutes, I could still see the pill in her mouth but it had begun to dissolve; and more important, Nancy was breathing easier. So I went back to eat my supper.

It was fifteen to twenty minutes later that I came back to Nancy’s study. She was peaceful with her eyes closed, but her mouth was open. I looked into her mouth to see if the pill was dissolved. It was then that I realized that she was not breathing. I checked for a pulse in her wrist, but did not find one. For some time I sat quietly by Nancy’s side. You might say that I prayed, though I have no memory of particular words expressed at the time. You might say that I gave thanks for a peaceful beginning of her soul’s journey forward. After my quiet time, I called the hospice nurse and she recommended that I contact the funeral home I had pre-arranged to help care for Nancy’s body. Both the nurse and the funeral people soon came to the house and completed their duties.

Later that night, I went back into Nancy’s study and sat alone where the bed had been standing. I thought about stories that the soul lingers near the place of death after the physical body has been taken away. I encouraged Nancy’s soul to communicate with me. For fifteen to twenty minutes I sat quietly and waited. I had no sense of her presence in the room and went to bed.

Two days later, on September 4th, they cremated Nancy’s physical body. I chose to be present for this act of cremation. I took with me a journal to write in and a CD player with a recording of monastic chant–Nancy had heard this chant many mornings when she was waking up because it was part of my morning ritual. I did not realize the industrial nature of the cremation process. It was difficult to hear the chant over the sound of the furnace. Nevertheless, I said a prayer over her body before it entered the furnace, and then I sat and wrote down a list of happy times in our marriage. Again, I wanted to be aware of the separation of the soul from the physical body. For this reason I have placed Nancy’s ashes next to our bed and they will stay there until I inter them at Doylestown Cemetery after the celebration of life service on October 5, 2019.

Dreams have always had a strong influence on the decisions I make in this world. On September 14th I had a dream where Nancy and I were listening to music. She said to me in the dream, “turn this music into a story”. When I woke up I immediately thought of creating a documentary film about Nancy’s life. I wrote down in my journal this title: “The Music of Life”.

As I ponder this idea for a film about Nancy’s life, I think how her creativity was very much tied to musical communities–most importantly to Westminster Choir College where she worked for over forty years. She also was a member of the Episcopal Church and worked as an organist for several churches over the years. She was a member the American Guild of Organist. She held an office in the Hymn Society for several years and she sang most recently with the Bucks County Choral Society–in addition she did research and provided access to music for these organizations. I am sure that I have not covered all the musical groups she was related to during her lifetime. Nancy was gifted at working in communities. I am sure I will find more about this life of music when I create a film about it. If you have a story about Nancy–which you think I might not know–please share it with me. I want this documentary film to tell the story of how Nancy discovered who she was meant to be in the time she was given on this earth!

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Early this summer I shared plans to engage neighborhood children in an art project to draw pictures for one of my stories–Ice Cream Mud. It will be self-published as a picture book using Kindle Direct as I did the mouse story two years ago. Well, our young artists have been at it for more than a month and we are getting wonderful results. My partner for this project is Pat Achilles, a professional illustrator. She has helped the kids to establish a set of general characteristics–or norms– for the three animals in our story. It is a bit tricky to involve nine imaginations to tell one story. So far it seems to be working.

When I conceived this project I said that I wanted to reengage with that ten year old Raymond Lowell Gray by engaging with ten year olds today. I don’t know that it has happened yet, but I have appreciated being part of an experience where creative imaginations have been freed to express themselves as they please. For example: One line in the story says “The sun was high in a clear sky and it really was a hot, hot summer day!” One young artist drew a picture that shows the main character, Donkey, walking down the road and overhead is an orange-red star! I love that this child saw the sun–in truth a star–with five point instead of appearing as a round ball.

We all have imaginations, but sometimes living, growing up and being responsible adults stifles the expression of our imaginations. We are too careful about the norms of expression: the sun is round because the norm tells us this is so. I don’t know what physics has to say about this norm, but I know one ten year old who disagrees!

So have I run into that ten year old Raymond Lowell Gray in this past month? I don’t think so, but I am not sure I would recognize him if I did meet him–many norms of life have been shattered in sixty-seven years. One thing I will comment on is the relationship between play and work with a group of ten year olds. The first session, when we introduce the story to them, was full of play and enthusiasm for the project. The work of drawing the pictures has been more problematic–soccer games and dates at the swimming pool have distracted our young artist–but we have preserved, the work is being done and hopefully more norms will be shattered.

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For everything there is a season,
and a time for every purpose under the heavens…..
Ecclesiastes 3:1

I don’t know about you, but I have always treasured stability–the normal in my life–knowing there is someone who loves me and wants to be with me. Also, I need a place to call home, a work that creatively engages my body and soul, and enough material wealth to provide the essentials of daily life. I don’t need the excesses of fame and riches, the abnormal of what I have described above. Some may think this is a recipe for living a boring life, but I think, and feel, that it has provided the base for me to become who I was meant to be in this world–Grandpa Jung’s idea of individuation.

Recently I had lunch with my two grandchildren, one fourteen and the other nineteen. The nineteen year old brought her reusable straw because she wanted to show her concern about plastic waste in our world. She will be a second year student at Temple University this fall and is thinking about a major in public health. She told a story about a woman who spent ten years working as a public health specialist in third world countries before she married and started her own family. My grandson, who will be fifteen in two weeks, has expanded his view of the future past the idea of being an athlete. He spoke about a college major in astronomy. These young people are full of becoming stories.

I like to think today that my interaction with life is a different form of being and becoming. To understand what I mean by “being”, let me first say what it is not. It is not a form of “mindfulness”, that awareness of breath, body and the immediate world around us. I don’t have a problem with that kind of being, but my understanding of being is broader. It has a social context where I explore a relationship to the other people in my world. For example, being is important when I am involved in a conversation with another person. I have to enter intently into listening to what the other says, not thinking about what I want to say. The same is true when I perform as an oral storyteller. I have to be in a relationship with my audience, whether it is five or five hundred. I have to feel their response to my performance and tailor my story to it. This sense of being is also present when I sit down to write a story: the chair where I sit, the keyboard and screen, the music I listen to as I write. These physical contexts, and many more I could describe, come into play when I interact with the world where I choose to be. So, in a real sense, I am no different from my grandchildren, I am still becoming, but in a more nuanced and less obvious way.

There is a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time pluck up what is planted. Ecclesiastes 3:2

This process of becoming and being is central to human life. The development of human consciousness has made us aware of the process. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, it has also made us aware that we will not live forever–at least not in this unique form of physical body and consciousness. We all must die. I appreciate that the Preacher in Ecclesiastes connects death with the idea of planting and harvesting. The creative life is the process of planting seeds, giving birth to something new. Sometimes you see in your lifetime the fruits of your labor, you “pluck up what is planted”. It can equally be true that you will not be the one to harvest the fruits of your labor; you will die before the time is full. When this is the reality, it is important to make sure you have planted well, tended the crop and allowed that it is another’s right to “pluck up what is planted”. This kind of life requires a stronger sense of being than becoming.

Men have no advantage over beasts; for everything is emptiness. All go to the same place: all came from dust, and to the dust all return……So I saw that there is nothing better than that a man should enjoy his work, since that is his lot: who can bring him to see what will be after him?” Ecclesiastes 3:19-22

It was about thirteen years ago that I decided to stop promoting my storytelling programs for children and start to work on stories for the last third of life. I did not make this decision because I had lost my enjoyment of my work with children; I made the decision because I felt there was something special to be discovered about growing old and dying.–the becoming part of this stage of life. Arthur C. Brooks, in a recent Atlantic Magazine article, describes it: “What I need to do, in effect, is stop seeing my life as a canvas to fill, and start seeing it more as a block of marble to chip away at and shape something out of”. For me the chipping away work involved the development of my “Jung stories” and starting a blog where I reflect on these last years of my life. I have volunteered my storytelling skills to various museums and presently I am involved with a group of neighborhood children to create pictures for one of my children’s stories. None of this work has earned money or much notice, but I have enjoyed these years of reflection and sharing with others.

So getting back to my treasured “normal”–or as Nancy’s mother called it, “that happy medium”–I don’t know that the preacher in Ecclesiastes, or Mr. Brooks, would agree with me. Nevertheless, I have tried to live a life that is routine and normal: I get up every morning at 5:30 A.M. to work at my desk. By 11:00 A.M. I am ready for lunch and a short nap. By 5:00 P.M. I stop working, fix a meal, watch the world news on PBS and have my first glass of wine. Dinner is at 6:00 P.M. with my beautiful wife. Often we eat, converse and drink wine until past 8:00 P.M. By 9:30 P.M. I am ready for bed. This normal routine is interrupted by the variety of life, but we are happy and quick to return to our set pattern.

There are other forms this normal routine takes in my life. I like a regular day of the week set aside for house cleaning. As my Pennsylvania German ancestors would say: “Time to read up the place”. For me that means: clean the bathroom, change the bath towels and bed linen, sweep the floors throughout the house and dust the furniture. Special attention is given to the kitchen where I scrub the floor, clean the countertops and stove and get rid of those things in the refrigerator that have been left open too long. And, as I work, I enjoy music on the CD player–often one of Nancy’s recordings of a choir singing Christian hymns.

So, as a human being of seventy-seven years, I have discovered my “being and becoming” in these normal and routine activities of life. I understand that others may find my life boring and uninteresting–I do not–I wake up every day ready to engage the world I find before me and to become who I am meant to be down to the moment when I take my last breath of air!

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How can I experience the feelings of childhood at the age of seventy-seven? For many the answer is to spend time with your grandchildren–and I did that–but mine are now high school and college age and they are striving to become adults. That is not bad if you do not forget the lessons of childhood in your rush to grow up. I think life works best when we advance through the stages while retaining the lessons from each time in our lives. This might be one way to define the idea of human consciousness. My point is that, as an old man, I feel the need for a refresher course, a re-connection with the consciousness of a child!

Oral storytelling has been at the center of my adult life. For the twenty years that Nancy and I have lived in Doylestown we have welcomed friends and neighbors to join us in the summer for stories in our backyard. For many years the group that gathered was predominantly adult; then two years ago, we had ten to twelve young children show up in the front row. Several young families had moved into the neighborhood. Luckily, several of our tellers were able to change their stories for that night to appeal to our young audience members. After that evening of storytelling, I became more aware of the sounds of neighborhood children playing outside in the warm seasons of the year.

The gift of play is one of the things we can learn from children. I wrote about this in a previous essay called “The Master’s Pay”. One night last fall, as Nancy and I were enjoying a meal on the patio, we heard the sounds of the neighborhood children still playing as night arrived. This experience led me to the idea of engaging these children in a form of creative play. I have many stories that were told in school assembly programs over the years. These stories all have a written text, and some have audio and video recordings, but they have not been published as books with illustrations.

The idea is to engage the neighborhood children in creating the pictures to illustrate a fable called “Ice Cream Mud”, a story that was created with my own children more than forty years ago! A professional illustrator of children’s books, who lives here in Doylestown, has agreed to help with the project. When we have the finished children’s art works, she will compose the illustrations that will appear in the book.

We have eleven neighborhood children, ages eight to twelve, signed up for our community arts project! The evening of June 17 we will gather in our backyard again. I will tell Ice Cream Mud and talk briefly about fables as a story form. Pat Achilles, our professional illustrator, will talk about materials and guidelines for the pictures the children will create. We will both be available through the summer to interact with the children and their parents as they work on the drawings. Hopefully, by the first week in August, we will meet again to gather the art work and share stories about the process. If all goes well, we will have a completed book for the holiday season in December.

So do I think that I can reengage with the child in me through this community art project? Honestly, I do not know the answer to this question. It has been more than ten years since I regularly engaged children with my stories. Lately, I have been thinking more about growing old and dying as discussed in my last essay, “The Uninvited Guest”. The aches and pains of my seventy-seven year old body stifle my interest to physically engage in much play these days. On the other hand, my intellectual and emotional interests have not diminished with aging. I still have a curious mind and soul. I want to better understand what it means to be a kid today and, if possible, to encounter something of that ten year old boy, Raymond Lowell Gray, who was kicking about in 1952!

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The Uninvited Guest

When Nancy and I first walked through the front door of 68 Clemens Road, we both recognized that this was a place where we could host gatherings of friends and family–and we have done this for the past twenty years. Our wedding reception saw more than thirty people dancing around the May pole in our backyard. For many years we hosted Christmas parties for friends and family to gather for food, talk, singing and listening to stories. Smaller groups have gathered to share a meal under the magnolia tree in the spring and others have joined us for a cup of coffee by the big, picture window in winter. In short, we have enjoyed years of sharing our home with many guests.

Last spring, about this time, we had an uninvited guest show up at our door. Maybe better said, this guest slipped in the door when we were not expecting a guest. How do I describe the reality of having Death become a part of your life? Both Nancy and I remember thinking about the idea of death as a child. She tested positive for a rare illness and people speculated about this life threatening illness. I remember thinking at the age of six: ‘I better get started doing what I want to do in life because my time on earth will not last forever–someday I will die!’ I have always felt urgency about life and that may be the source of the anxiety that I have lived with much of my life.

Death is always part of our lives, especially if you come from a large family like mine. As a young child, I experienced the deaths of my grandparents, great uncles and aunts. I remember open caskets surrounded by flowers at a funeral home and family members saying things like: “I can’t believe he’s passed, but he’s gone to a better place.” Everyone seemed shocked that a seventy year old man had died. I never was. He looked old to me. We paid our respects and then gathered with family to eat and visit. I remember funerals as being a good time to play with your cousins at the old family farm.

The experience of death became more real and immediate for me when my father and mother died. Particularly, the death of my mother was most potent because I was with her when she died. But even then, I was a healthy sixty-six years old. I sang and talked to her through the process that lasted maybe five hours. After she died, I came home, talked, cried and drank several glasses of Irish Mist with Nancy. After her burial, I spent several weeks editing and sharing the journal I kept for the last years of my mother’s life…but my life went on.

So how is this present guest’s arrival at my front door different from past visits from the idea of death? After all, I did not get the diagnosis of cancer. It is Nancy who is dealing with the physical struggle to eat and monitor her bodily functions. Death has not come for me; again, it is someone else feeling the call. This sounds like I believe that I am going to live forever! No, I am fully aware that I could have a heart attack and die before Nancy. This writing is an attempt to live consciously the life I have been given to live; and for me, death is part of the life I have been given to live in the present.

When you grow old with one you love, you become more connected because you spend more time together. Nancy and I do not talk much during the day, but I am always aware of where she is in the house. I look forward– and often plan subjects for conversation– to the evening time when we share a meal–though this also has been changed by Nancy’s difficulty with eating. And, we always savor our time after the meal with a drink and conversation for an hour or more–and this too has been shortened some nights by Nancy not having a voice to carry on the conversation. Finally, every night we retire to the bedroom to read before falling asleep. We always sleep touching–if ever so lightly–and this has not been disturbed by the cancer. So, if Nancy does die before me, I will have to face a brutal reality of being left to face my death alone.

Can I talk about this reality and consciously accept that death is now a part of my life? It is not easy to grow old and die. Some have suggested that it is best to ignore death: exercise, continue with your work, travel, share life with your friends and family–as one storyteller friend, Charlotte Blake Alston, expresses it in a story, “just keep on, keepin’ on”. I do not think this approach to life will work for me. In my family of origin, that I described earlier, family members have tried to ignore death. As Christians, many believe in a life after death: “Oh death, where is thy victory? Oh death, where is thy sting?” (I Corinthians: 15:55) I do not want to disagree with this approach to dealing with death, but neither do I find solace in it. Instead, I find myself trying to muster the courage to invite death, as a reality, into my home, to invite death to sit by the big picture window with me, that we might talk and get to know each other.

How do I begin to engage death? Where did this idea of death originate? Some have suggested that it all starts with human consciousness, when humans became aware of themselves and the ego was born. Actually, you can argue that god was recognized about the same time–the Hebrew and Christian book of Genesis tell this story in the first two chapters. One of the most difficult lessons to learn in life is that there is a world that will go on without me. How can I accept that I am not eternal? Maybe I need to revisit the six year old me, the one who was encouraging himself to get started with life because he was not going to be here forever. Well I did that, I have lived a long life and I feel that I did what I was meant to do, to become who I was meant to be, not who others wanted me to be–thank you Grandpa Jung for this insight–but now my life is nearing an end. I want to find a way to welcome death into my life.

My life has been…I pause… I am not sure that what I am going to say is what I think and feel, but I will say it anyway…I have no need for truth and the right in my life. Understanding the process of living, and doing it, is more important than establishing a set of rules about it. I have enjoyed living on the shifting sands of life, not the solid rock of a theological or philosophical system. Life is being in the moment and interacting with the world around you. For me, this world is both practical/rational and intuitive/spiritual. An example of this approach to life is found in my journals as a young man:

Journal kept during my service in the Peace Corps, March 17, 1964, age 21, working in Dominican Republic with a rural community to build a two room school..”I am having the same problem with the school, no one wants to do the work….it doesn’t bother me anymore. I work when they are willing to work.” This is followed by a quote from Ernest Dimnet book, ‘The Art of Thinking’: “Mankind might be divided between the multitude who hate to be kept waiting because they get bored and the happy few who rather like it because it gives them time for thought.” Continuing on: “We cannot love God through fear and guilt: we must love God because there is a need for fulfillment and to become whole. God must help us find the wholeness that is lacking in us.” I might add that God must give us more than a promise of life after death. I have always enjoyed living on the boundaries between the practical and rational and the intuitive and spiritual. Life, for me, is always more about being than becoming!

This view of life has not always benefited or made life easy for me. In my twenties, I identified my interest in the spiritual with a career path in the Christian Church. What I did not understand was the need of most Christians to find answers, to find the truth and the right in life. These answers are provided in the ritual and dogma of a belief system, or the theology that explains the relationship between the human and the divine. My journey in life has focused on the joy and pain of asking questions and finding answers that never quite satisfy my curiosity. So I never come to answers that fit into a system of beliefs.

Intuitively, not rationally, I think I understood this in my late twenties– when I broke from the Church and started my career as a creator of stories, oral, visual, and written–that my life would be a struggle to balance the mysteries of life, not solve them with answers. The process of creating stories has been my way to understand life’s journey.

So how will I tell the story of Raymond Lowell Gray sitting by the big window with Death–an imagined character in one of my stories– and talking about life and coming to the end of it? I think it is best to set the scene by describing Raymond at different stages of life. Raymond was not a good sleeper as a child. The dark of night opened the door to things that threatened life. Pale light of the night slipped through the bedroom window suggesting an intruder. A shadow on the half open closet door, or the creak of a floor board suggested the advance of the intruder into his world. Raymond could retreat under the covers, but when a hiding place did not suffice, an escape was necessary. He would quietly get out of bed and tip-toe from his bedroom to that of his mother. He was not allowed into the parental bed, but he could curl up on the rug beside the bed until his fear of the intruder subsided.

As Raymond Lowell matured into a young man, his fear of the night intruder was replaced by fantasies of a different sort. Sexual energies grew in his body and the dark of night became his setting for exploring imagined relationships with the females of his world: mother, sister, and neighborhood friend. Soon these explorations took on a physical reality and he found hardness between his legs and a wet, sticky substance ejected from his penis in the midst of a half-dream fantasy.

Marriage and the responsibilities of finding a way in the world for many years reduced the terrors of the night. Sharing his bed with another, Raymond could reach out to and touch his wife when fear of the dark appeared. Having a mate helped to push back the shadows of night and provided some sense that he was not vulnerable in this world. Through a failed marriage, and three years alone, he managed to stave off the intruder by focusing on creating stories and finding a partner to again share his life. His second wife, for many years, shared her intimacy and her intellect to again help to stave off Raymond’s fears of the night.

This period of grace lasted until Raymond Lowell Gray arrived at the time when most retire from their world of promotion and begin to contemplate a time of reflection. It was in his mid-sixties that Raymond found his fear of the dark night returning, when the dark shadows and creaking of the floorboards sent signals of alarm and he felt the need to combat the intruder again. It was then that Raymond discovered an antidote by shifting his mind set from the world of dreams to the world of rational thought. He discovered, when his fear appeared, he need only get up, go out to the couch in the living room, by the big picture window, lie down and read for a period of time–blinds were bought to block the dark of night and its imagined source of fear.

So how do we put aside this game of life, this struggle with the darkness and all of the harm it seems to present to us? Raymond decided to invite the source of his fear into his life. Choosing a name was the first step. He decided to call his fear, his intruder, “Death”. One night he went out to the room with the big window. He did not bring a book to engage his rational powers. Instead, he purposely set about to create an atmosphere to engage the unconscious, to create a story, one where Death might feel welcome. He lite a single candle and set it on the coffee table before the window. The blinds were opened so that the dark of night melded with the dark of the room where the shadows created by the candle light danced about the bookshelves and furniture. Raymond purposely lay down on the couch in front of the window. He wanted to be both part of the shadows and yet exposed and vulnerable. Then he closed his eyes and began a meditation, or invitation, to the unconscious. Raymond invited his imagination to create a character he called Death that they might talk together about life.

Come, let us join this exploration of the unknown in the dark of night. It is mid-winter, neither cold nor warm, but with a mist that softens the bare-bone reality of the magnolia tree outside Raymond’s window. The boundaries between his conscious and unconscious, like the mist of the night, meld together and Raymond opens his eyes after a period of quiet meditation. Before him, he sees a figure sitting upright at the other end of the couch from his prone position. After seventy and more years of fearing an unwanted intruder to his night world, Raymond is heartened that he feels no fear. Though not hard and fast of flesh and sinew, the visitor is not devoid of humanity. Indeed, he looks much like a man Raymond observed in a church service that very day. He is dressed in blue-jeans and a sport shirt that fits tight around his robust belly–his arms are folded and his legs crossed. As he turns to face Raymond, there is warmth to his wrinkled smile that Raymond finds welcoming.

The visitor speaks softly, “Thank you for inviting me into your home this night.”

“I, I, I don’t know what to say”, responds Raymond without moving from his prone position. “I mean, I imagined something else, like in a Bergman movie, hooded, carrying the scythe, you know full of endings, not beginnings. I can’t think how to begin. What do I call you?”

Death stands up, his face toward the darkened window, his rounded body in profile, and says, “I would like to be called, Teacher; maybe even…Friend?”

Now Raymond slowly stands up and looks out of the window as he gathers himself to converse with Death. Without turning to his visitor, he begins to speak: “Since childhood, I have thought of death as a positive, not a negative influence in my life. I mean, I think of it as a kinda ‘kick in the pants’ to remind me that life is not eternal. We should have purpose, things we want to do in this life. So, I guess in some ways I do think of you as my teacher!”

“And have you found that purpose”, inquires Death?

An answer is not immediate, Raymond Lowell and his new friend stand like two travelers on the bow of a ship at sea and they stare into the misty night outside the big window.

Again, without assurance, Raymond responds, “Yes, I think I have. I mean, I have not found great material success in life–no fame or wealth. I have a friend who says that success comes when your purpose matches the purpose of the larger society…I have always felt that I am out of step with the world around me. I am an outsider; nevertheless, I have found purpose in my creative work.”

“Your world of story”, says Death.

“Yes”, says Raymond, “creating stories gives me a way to discover my purpose in life. As I have grown older, this pursuit has taken on a spiritual element. The writer, Nikos Kazantzakis, describes it this way: “God made us as grubs, by our effort we become butterflies!”

“Ah God”, says Death, “interesting that you bring up Him or Her, however you choose your human metaphor. God has goaded me from the beginning of human consciousness.

“I can understand”, says Raymond, “you have represented the negative as opposed to the positive of the divine. But, as I said, I have always found a positive in the idea of death, the goad to find my purpose in life. Perhaps the way to contemplate existence is to not use terms like positive and negative; I like to think of it as a balance of opposites.

Death sighs, “Easier said than done, but I have not come this dark night to seek counsel. I am here to help you confront your fear of the unknown.”

Now it is Raymond Lowell’s turn to sigh as he contemplates a response. “I guess, maybe, I fear a loss of control. I mean, all of my life I have been careful about the details of the day as well as the night. Before going to bed, I close the window blinds. I check the locks on all of the doors. I prepare for the intruder…but I am growing old, no, I am old. I cannot keep you, Death, from coming into my life, to complete the negative part of your mission.”

Death smiles, “I agree that the problem is related to the idea of control, but control is not all bad–hence your idea of balancing opposites–the Christian idea of grace provides a balance. If control means that you always have to be right, then it is negative. It is a bad way to live your life. Grace offers the opportunity that you can be wrong and start over again. It makes control less arbitrary and therefore your life is free to explore and discovery new ways of living.”

“That is all fine and good for the young in life, but I am old. I am facing the end of my life”, says Raymond. “Like most humans I have no imagination to contemplate a world without me, me, me! I exaggerate a bit to make my point.”

With meaningful nod of his head, Death responds, “Yes, yes, ‘me’ has its place in your human psyche also. But using your idea of opposites, can we not say that the opposite of me” is “you”, and the balance between them is the idea of “love”. Your experience and understanding of your love for your wife, Nancy, softens and dilutes the “me” in you, if that makes any sense to you. The same is true of love for the divine, for your neighbor, even your enemy; and yes, even your love of death! Love helps balance the scale between you and me.” The last words soften and seem to float away on the night air as Death points to Raymond and looks directly at him.

Now, it is Raymond who turns and smiles as he looks into the eyes of Death, “I have one, last question for you. I am not sure how to say this…I have felt guilty much of my life because I cannot find meaning in the sacred stories of the Christian Church, the spiritual tradition of my ancestors. Can you help me understand my rebellion?”

Without a word of consolation, Death answers: “You live in a world of stories. Your Christian tradition tells the story of human consciousness coming into being through the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil–notice the opposites–and Eve first tasted this fruit. And, this act of Eve, also introduces to the story my role as Death. My point here is that humans have always created stories to explain the world in which they live. Today, in this world, another story is more popular. It is the story that science tells about the evolution of life on this planet. My suggestion, Raymond Lowell Gray, is that you are free to create and tell the story as it fits your time in life. This may cause pain and you may feel alone, but that is the right and duty of every creator of story. You are Eve. You have a right to reach up and take down a fruit from your own tree of knowledge of good and evil.”

“So is this the source of my fear of the night? And perhaps, the reason l try to control the world I inhabit?”, ponders Raymond.

“It is all story”, says Death. “All humans unconsciously know that they live in an imperfect state, outside the Garden of Eden, and they wish to return. Some ignore this reality and isolate themselves in their conscious state of human reason spiced by emotions. Others recognize the unconscious and their intuitive powers, but they look for answers to help them cope with this other reality. They find support and answers in a system of belief, a religion that allows them to be part of a community of believers. Then, my friend, there are those who strike out alone, who choose to create their own destiny. Often they end up with more questions than answers and this breeds insecurity, fear and anxiety–as you well know.”

“Hmmm”, ponders Raymond.

“Don’t quote me on that when you come before your Maker”, says Death. “As you well know, humans often need a mix of approaches to discover the balance that works for them.”

Outside Raymond sees that the mist has disappeared and a full moon now illuminates the shape of the magnolia tree. He senses a moment of clear-light understanding and turns to thank Death for sharing with him… but his teacher, like the mist of the dark night, has disappeared from the consciousness of Raymond Lowell Gray.

So ends the first lesson for one human soul who seeks to reconcile the conscious and the unconscious, the human and the divine in us all.

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Three nights past I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth before bed. In the process, I noticed that the water was not going down the sink drain. Have you been there? So I dutifully went to the closet, took out a bottle of Drano and dumped a good supply down the sink drain. I waited half an hour. Then, as instructed on the bottle, I heated water and put a follow-up dose of boiling water down the drain–still clogged. I repeated the process another time, but no success.

That night, I went to bed and contemplated my next step for clearing the drain. I could call a plumber in the morning–I can afford the cost–but I am the son of a steelworker, the machinist, from Midland, Pennsylvania who built his own home. Solving practical, everyday problems was important to my father. So in the morning, I went out to the garage and found my little used vice-grip pliers and went back to the bathroom to take apart the trap under the sink.

When you are seventy-seven years old, it is not easy to work under a bathroom sink. Despite the rusted connectors, I was able to disassemble pipes and found that the trap was clear. This meant the clog was further into the system of drain pipes. I found myself staring at the dark end of a pipe that disappeared into the bathroom wall. Using a piece of wire, I was able to discover that the pipe went through the wall and turned downward.

So there I lay on the bathroom floor pondering my household problem–not so different from the problem of looking down the dark hole when you are creating a story. I reasoned that I needed to find a way to inject more of my Drano through the wall and down the pipe. But how do I do that?

Here, I had the perspicacity to climb out from under the sink and consult with the other side of the brain trust that lives at 68 Clemens Road. I went to Nancy, my wife, and explained my problem. She thought a moment and said, “Why don’t you try the turkey baster! And I have an old tea kettle that holds a gallon of water. You will need a lot of hot water.” Over twenty years of marriage, our anniversary will be May 1, I have learned to listen and follow-up with actions based my wife’s solutions to life’s problems big and small.

There was a dramatic climax to our household experiment. With added contortions, I managed to squeeze ten shots of Drano down the offending pipe and reassembled the trap. Then, after waiting half an hour again, I gorged the sink drain with boiling hot water–waited and waited–the water did not disappear down the drain. Finally, I went back to Nancy and said, “It’s not working, better get the plumber’s telephone number.” Then, I went back to the bathroom to pick up my tools…and there I saw it….the seas had parted through the grace of God, Nancy Wicklund Gray’s powers of reason and my minimal plumbing skills–the drain for our bathroom sink was working again!

I have spent a life creating stories; and as an old man, I am trying to connect my creative energy to my spiritual journey in life. Nevertheless, I enjoy nothing more than the opportunity to discover the same creative energy in the practical, every day journey of life.

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Last month I shared a story that was created out of the angst of separating from the Presbyterian Church fifty years ago. Evidently my creative self was not finished with telling that story. About two weeks ago, I had a dream that brought me back to the same nexus between my creative and spiritual lives. I found myself silently reading a text with a female companion. As I read, she offered a spoken interpretation of the text. When I woke up in the morning, I understood the dream to mean that the “spoken interpretation” was an intuitive and creative reflection on the rational story of my life. My female companion was my anima! This dream was a gentle reminder from Grandpa Jung to not forget my connection to the unconscious, both the personal and collective.

What next? Intuitively I decided not to go back to my stack of old stories–as I did for the last blog–instead I turned to the book shelf where I have stored fifty-six years of journals in twenty books. Quickly I separated out the journals that covered 1969-1973. These were the years that saw the transition from potential minister in the Presbyterian Church to storyteller. There I found an entry from November of 1969 that stimulated the creative process in me:

“Read my Bible every day,
Study hard, hard, hard,
And I will earn the Master’s pay.
Leave these books, forget the Word,
Work hard, hard, hard,
Can I still earn the Master’s pay?

I feel great pressure about the decision I have to make in the coming year. What am I doing in my life? I question my ability to make the right decision. I don’t have anyone I can go to, to talk about what I am going to do. I do not trust my own judgement. I need to find someone to bounce my ideas off, and to see my reflection through another set of eyes.”

When I read the phrase, “Master’s pay”, I immediately made the connection to “God” as the world’s spiritual master. Then, I thought about young, Raymond Lowell Gray, he came from a family of steel workers and coal miners. In the working man’s world the company was the master who set your schedule and paid your worldly wages. Finally, I thought about my world: Who is my master? The best I can imagine is that my creativity has set my schedule and paid my wages for over forty years–modest though it be.

Then a few days later, I had a second dream that I thought had a relation to this subject. This time I found myself at a party where I met a young man. We talked about a career for him. I suggested that he was good looking and personable. He might do well to find a corporate job and work his way up the ladder to success, wealth and fame. A wry smile appeared on the young man’s face and he disappeared from my dream. When I woke up, I realized my dream companion this time was myself as a young man!

Finally, the light turned on and I made a connection to the beginning of a story. It is a story about my two “selves”; my self as a twenty-seven year old Young Man; and my self as seventy-seven year old Old Man. They will meet and the Old Man will be the other “set of eyes” that the Young Man is seeking in his journal entry. I wonder what advice the Old Man will offer him? And, perhaps more interesting, I wonder what advice the Young Man might offer to the Old Man?


The story begins on a November night in 1969. We find Raymond Lowell, a twenty-seven year old, sitting at a desk in an apartment in Princeton, New Jersey. On the desk before him is a letter from the Presbyterian Church telling him officially that he has been rejected for ordination as a minister. With a gesture of anger and frustration, he sweeps the letter from the desk and it floats gently to the floor. From the side of the desk he purposely takes hold of a journal where he records his most personal thoughts and feelings about life. He picks up a pen and begins to write: “I feel great pressure about the decision I have to make in the coming year. What am I doing in my life? I question my ability to make the right decision. I don’t have anyone I can go to, to talk about what I am going to do. I do not trust my own judgement. I need to find someone to bounce my ideas off, and to see my reflection through another set of eyes.”

Gently Raymond Lowell puts down his pen and reads the words he has written on the paper. For a moment he considers who that person might be–that other set of eyes–his father, his wife, his mother, his best friend? Yes, he will consult with all of these close members of his family, but might there be one who is close, but not tied to the present circumstances? Quietly he closes his eyes and waits for a response from the unconscious.

Raymond Lowell finds himself sitting in a comfortable reclining chair. As he looks about him, he sees a man sitting at a desk, his back to Raymond. The room about him appears to be a study. There is a bookcase full of books. On the walls there are pictures, some reprints of paintings, some original and some are photos. He recognizes the people in the photos. They are members of his family–his parents, his sister and brother.

The man is working and he is unaware of the visitor to his world. He is typing on the keyboard of what appears to be typewriter, but instead of the words appearing on paper above his keyboard, they are appearing on a portable screen standing on the desk. Raymond has no words to describe this machine. He has never seen personal computer.

Wishing to engage the man, Raymond coughs and says gently, “Excuse me sir.” His approach is not gentle enough, the man is startled. The man turns and for a moment Raymond sees a look on his face, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. “I’m sorry if I startled you. I just want to ask a favor of you.”

The man quickly regains his composure and smiles. “That’s OK, I am easily startled. We all have our shortcomings.”

Raymond takes a moment to measure this man of his dream. He is elderly, thick through the middle, but not obese. His hair is gray, the hairline receding, but he still has a full head of hair: and his smile, it radiates a warmth and willingness to communicate. Raymond feels emboldened: “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m facing a difficult time in my life and……and I need someone to talk with…I mean someone who can help me reflect…you know, like another set of eyes to see into the future.”

The Old Man rolls his chair away from the desk and closer to Raymond. He reaches out his hand and touches Raymond’s knee: “Where’s the rub?”

His eyes looking away, Raymond continues: “You see, I’ve always thought of myself as a spiritual person. I think about God a lot. I’ve tried to understand my relationship with the divine….about my soul and its relationship to God. For me, this relationship is tied more to people and social responsibility than to the practice of rituals”

“That works for me”, says the Old Man, “where is your problem?”

“It’s the Church”, says Raymond, “I thought I could serve God and satisfy my spiritual needs by becoming a Presbyterian minister. I’ve been successful at earning the degree, but I failed when I was questioned by the Church elders about my beliefs. My problem is my passion for the spiritual journey. I start to talk and tell stories and I don’t think about institutions and the people who run them…I forget about the beliefs of the Church–taking Jesus as my Savior and looking forward to my reward in Heaven means nothing to me. My spirituality is in the here and now, in my relationship with those that I love and want to serve. Now the Presbyterian Church has turned me down, rejected me for ordination…and I don’t know what to do.

The Old Man is silent for a long time as Raymond Lowell shifts nervously about in the Old Man’s so-called “easy chair”. Finally he responds with a question: “Do you know what it means to live a creative life?”

Raymond frowns: “You mean like the hippies, ‘do your thing’?”

The Old Man laughs out loud and slaps Raymond on the arm, “No man, I’m not saying you have to smoke dope, grow long hair and wear bell-bottom pants. But you do have to be willing to step outside the norm of what others want you to be and do. And you have to know that you are going to make mistakes, steps in the wrong direction, not everything is going to work. Here’s where your Christian idea of grace comes into play. You’re allowed to make mistakes, be forgiven and start over again.”

Raymond stands up and walks over to the window and stares outside for a quiet moment. When he turns back to the Old Man, he now has a frown on his face. “What about my family? What about my parents? They want to tell their friends about their son, the Rev. Raymond Lowell Gray. And I have a wife, a son and a second child on the way. How am I going to support them?

The Old Man stands up and he faces Raymond Lowell, eye to eye. “It ain’t gonna be easy. You will have to work, work, work to earn your Master’s pay. I believe you can do it. I know you will do it.”

When Raymond Lowell opens his eyes again, he hears his son crying in the bedroom of the apartment. It is time to comfort a child’s fears of the unknown. We all need support and guidance, another set of eyes to help us find our way in this life.


Last night I finished the part of my story where the Old Man shares his advice, or wisdom, with young Raymond Lowell Gray. As I fell asleep, my rational mind was thinking about the next part of the story. What will the young man share with the old man? Again, my unconscious had a response that was shared in a dream:

It is a warm, summer day and I am standing on a grassy field. My companion is a young girl about the age of eight or nine. She is laughing, happy and bit mischievous by the look on her face. She tells me to lie down on my back in the grass. She turns and runs a short distance; then, turns back toward me and warns me to be very still. Suddenly, laughing loudly, she runs towards me. When she comes to my body, she puts her hands on my fat belly and somersaults over my body, arms and legs awry, and still laughing!

When I woke up I pondered this dream: ‘So what’s this about? Maybe something the Young Man wants to share with the Old Man?

Before we go back to the story, I have an explanation to make about my name. As a young man I was known as Raymond Lowell Gray. My family called me “Ray”, but I believe, if I had become a Presbyterian minister, I would have been known as the Rev. Raymond Lowell Gray. As my life happened, and I became a teller of stories to children, the school children chose the name of Ray Gray. This happened on a day early in my work as a presenter of school assembly programs. I walked into a school where I had performed a couple of times. Some kids saw me and one called out: “Hey, there’s Ray Gray, the storyteller!” From that day I started to promote myself as “storyteller, Ray Gray”. With this explanation, let’s go back to our story of the Young Man, Raymond Lowell, and the Old Man, Ray.


Ray Gray is sitting on the old recliner in his study. He is thinking about a story he is writing. It is a story about a meeting between himself, as an old man, and himself as a young man. Ray imagines being able to talk with himself, that young man who was twenty-seven years old and trying to find his way in the world. What would he say to him? What advice could he offer from fifty years of living? Maybe more important: What would that young man say to him? What advice might a young man share with an old man of seventy-seven years? Ray closes his eyes and he waits for the unconscious to speak about the advice that the young have for the old in this world.

Ray finds himself sitting in a comfortable reclining chair, not unlike the “easy chair” in his study, but newer and more comfortable. As he looks about him, he sees a man sitting at a desk, his back to Ray. The room about him appears to be a student’s apartment. It serves as a combination, living room, dining room and study place with an old oak desk. On the walls there are picture of a small, blond hair boy. Ray recognizes the boy as his own son at the age of two.

The man is sitting at the oak desk. He is working and unaware of the visitor to his world. He is typing on a Smith-Corona typewriter like Ray had as a young man. Wishing to engage the man, Ray coughs and says gently, “Excuse me sir. “His approach is not gentle enough, the man is startled. He turns and for a moment there is a look on his face, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. “I’m sorry if I startled you. I just want to ask a favor of you.”

The man quickly regains his composure and smiles. “That’s OK, I am easily startled. We all have our shortcomings.”

The man stands up and extends his hand. Ray stands up, face to face with the Young Man. He takes a moment to measure this man of his dream. He looks very familiar, almost, kind of like, like Ray remembers himself as a young man. He is solidly built, but not fat. His hair is auburn colored, close cut and he has no facial hair. He is smiling; his face radiates a warmth and willingness to communicate. Ray reacts to the Young Man’s smile and he is emboldened to speak: “I’m sorry to disturb you, I’m old and maybe a bit set in my ways…you know caught up with my past…and maybe I can’t see the world as younger people see it. I need another set of eyes…. eyes to see the world as a young man, not an old man.”

The Young Man reaches out and touches the Ray’s arm. He says: “Tell me about the life you have lived. I’m interested to hear how have you spent the past fifty years?”

Ray turns and looks out a window. He is quiet for a moment and then turns back to the Young Man. “I guess you would say that they have been good years. I did what I needed to do…to become myself…not what others wanted me to be. I didn’t find fame and fortune, but I made a living. I guess if I have a complaint at the age of seventy-seven…..I mean…..what bugs me is that my creative ideas today are ignored by young people. It feels like they don’t listen…and it’s just because I’m old!

The Young Man smiles and says: Maybe you’ve forgotten how the game is played?

Ray frowns: “You mean like old men who play golf…nah, I don’t enjoy competition anymore… I certainly don’t like the games that young people play with old people at the gym. Yesterday I saw a young man leading a bunch of old people through a set of exercises on machines. As they pumped, he asked them trivia questions from the 1960’s….and I don’t like games old people play to keep their minds from developing dementia! I am more interested in creative work than play.”

The Young Man laughs as he turns and points to one of the pictures on the wall. “Do you see that boy in the picture? He is my two year old son. He is also my teacher, the one who is teaching me to play again. I think we know how to play as children, but we forget as we grow older. Let me tell you a little story.

Before that two year old came into my life, I was very serious. Life was work, work, work: social causes, book work, changing the world. One day my son and I were walking along the canal near here. I was thinking about Karl Barth’s idea of ‘dialectical theology’ for a paper I was writing. I didn’t see my son stop, go to the edge of the canal and hunker down right at the water’s edge.

When I turned and saw him, I hollered: “What are you doing, you could fall into the water and drown!”

He ignored me and dropped a piece of tree bark into the water.

I ran back to him and said, “Don’t you know you could drown in that canal. What are you doing?”

He looked up to me and said: “I’m send Tuggy the Tugboat off to find the sea.” The story of the tugboat was my son’s favorite story,and I liked the story too.”

The Young Man smiles and looks at Ray:” You know that day I stopped thinking about theology and took time to play with my son. We both went home muddy and wet after launching ten Tuggy the Tugboats off to the sea!”
The Young Man turns to Ray with a pensive look on his face, “You like that story? I do, I’m not sure where this will lead, but I like playing with the idea of creating and telling stories. Maybe I can work something out.”

Ray smiles: “Thank you for reminding me to play….and keep working on the story telling thing. I think your on to something!”


It has taken me nearly a lifetime to begin to discover the synergy that grows out of the relationship between creative play and work. I will continue to create stories that talk about this basic part of human experience. Like the man of my dream, I will try to provide the intuitive and creative reflection on the rational story of my life. It is my way to earn the Master’s pay.

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THE CUT AND RUN KID…still on my mind

As I begin my seventy-seventh year on this earth I am thinking about how I spend my days. I am an early riser. There is a good reason for this habit of life. Early morning is the hour when negative thoughts are most likely to appear for me. This morning my thoughts were again focused (blog for August 4, 2015) on my tendency to “cut and run” when events in life do not go as I want them.

Recently I severed my relationship with the National Museum of Industrial History because they did not show interest in my focus on the stories of workers in addition to the machines in the museum. Casting about for my next project I went back to the stacks of stories that live in the spare room. Some of these stories once had a life in performance, but many have never escaped the boundaries of paper, pen and one man’s imagination. One of those musings was entitled, “Tracing Shadows and Dreams into Stories”. This story purports to be in the form of a memoir, but as the title suggests it includes a bit of imagination. Despite these fanciful additions, I think there is truth in the tale. The story was written about fifteen years ago, but it tells a personal story from nearly fifty years ago. I have continued to explore its meaning in this new version.

January in western Pennsylvania can be Minnesota cold, but it is just as likely to be a mix of freezing rain, snow and back to rain. It was one of those nights that I drove into Zelienople. This Pennsylvania town was founded in the early nineteenth century by a wealthy German. He bought ten thousand acres in the Pennsylvania wilderness and founded a town that he named after his daughter, Zelie. We are left to surmise from the name of the town that he had visions of creating a new world Constantinople, a crossroads of world cultures in the new world. Zelienople had not reached this ideal by 1970; nevertheless, it was a prosperous, small town with a main street lined with red brick buildings. One end was anchored by the Presbyterian Church and at the other end by the First National Bank of Zelienople. I was headed to the bank, a gray granite structure with Doric columns across the front of its portico.

The Presbyterian Church in 1970 educated its future ministers in seminaries across America, but left the decision to ordain them as ministers in the hands of the churches that spawned them. I was raised in a church in the Beaver-Butler Presbytery in western Pennsylvania–the presbytery is the political institution of the Presbyterian Church above the local church. I was finishing my last semester at Princeton Theological Seminary in New Jersey and looking forward to graduation and being ordained the following summer. I had one more meeting with the presbytery’s committee that guided candidates along the three year path to ordination. The meeting was being held in the bank.

The meeting room was on the second floor. You did not enter through the front of the building; there was a private entrance at the back. I remember the sound of the marble steps. The wet cold of the January night was matched by this place of cold stone steps, brass railings and gray-green walls. As I climbed the steps to the second floor I could hear the sound of voices; it was not the sound of good friends gathered to commune, more like bankers talking business.

The door to the boardroom was partly open. I announced my arrival with a knock and pushed the oak door open. The room was warmer and more inviting than the steps and hallway. Though the walls were the same color and the floor the same cold marble, the warmth was achieved by the yellow light of the living room style lamps in place of the florescent lighting in the hallway. The lamps were scattered on small side tables around the periphery of the room. There was one large rectangular, oak table with twelve chairs in the center of the room. The walls were decorated with oil paintings. Four paintings on one wall depicted the Pennsylvania countryside in the different seasons of the year. Another wall was dominated by a large painting of the main street of Zelienople with the First National Bank well positioned for appreciation. Behind the head of the table there were two portraits of distinguished men in dark, business suits. The art work was original and I took this as a hopeful sign.

I had done my homework. As I waited to be recognized, I surveyed the room. The head of the candidates-care committee of the Beaver-Butler Presbytery sat in a solid oak chair beneath the portraits at the far end of the table. Malcolm Fiennes was his name. Mr. Fiennes was a man who looked uncomfortable in a business suit. His weathered face and callused hands identified his profession. He was a farmer who was old enough to have sons who ran the everyday business of the family farm. He still worked every day, but Malcolm had time to serve as an elder in the Zelienople Presbyterian Church and head this committee of the presbytery. He was also on the board of the bank where we were meeting. The other six members of the committee appeared to be more comfortable in their suits. They were an assortment of ordained ministers and other professions. Finally the business of the moment was completed and Mr. Fiennes looked toward the door: “Come in, come in Mr. Gray, find yourself a seat”, said the head of the candidates-care committee.

I surveyed the options for my seating as I took off my coat. The six committee members were gathered at the far end of the table near Mr. Fiennes. I might have chosen a seat at the side of the table next to one of the committee members; instead I chose the seat alone at the opposite end of the table from the head of the committee.

“I hope you did not have a difficult time with the weather tonight”, said Mr. Fiennes.

“No sir”, I responded as I draped my coat over the seat and sat down, “my grandparents all live in Kittanning. We always pass through Zelienople when we go for a visit. I’ve made many snowy trips through your town.”

“Good, good Raymond, let’s get to our business with you. This is I believe your third meeting with the committee?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are finishing your third year at Princeton”, said Mr. Fiennes as he read from his notes. “You are a member of the Four Mile Church. Good, we want to take a little of your time for some questions. I see that your grades are good, not great, but you have passed the course in Hebrew that was causing you problems.”

“Yes sir.”

“You have taken your exams for ordination. You passed the difficult one in Bible, but you failed theology?”

“Yes, I did, but I have rescheduled that exam. You see I finish class work this month, but I won’t graduate until spring. I took a job working in a steel mill, but I can still find time to study for a retake of the theology.”

“You took a job in the mill? That seems a little strange”, said Mr. Fiennes.

“Well sir, I am married. I need the money to support my family until I find a job in the Church. Besides, I come from a family of steelworkers. I want to know what it is like to work with my hands not my head.”

“I can see the merit in that,” said Fiennes as he put his papers aside and looked directly at me for the first time. “Since you are having trouble with theology, Mr. Gray, let’s talk about it. The Bible, Mr. Gray, what is the role of the Bible in our Christian life?”

“I believe the New Testament, Sir, is the writing of the early followers of Jesus. The story is in part the biography of Jesus and the history of the early Church; all is told with a sense of myth and poetry. The Old Testament is the story of the Hebrew people, the ancestors of Jesus. Again, there is variety of writing styles: history, poetry and myth.”

I paused for a moment to think how I wanted to continue my answer. Mr. Fiennes took the opportunity to rephrase his question, “Then the Bible is literature, a book, a good book for everyone to read?

“Yes”, I said, “it is a good book, perhaps the greatest ever written. Its role in the Church has differed from time to time, from Christian Church to Christian Church. Our Reformed tradition has placed great importance on members of the community reading the Bible and not relying on the authority of the clergy. This is why the Presbyterian Church has always strongly supported education. Everyone should be able to read…”

Mr. Fiennes interrupted me, “Is it divinely inspired, Mr. Gray?”

“Well sir, I believe it is, in so much as any human writing is undertaken in a respectful, honest way. I don’t believe it was mystically presented on a holy mountain. These are stories humanly created to convey a divine, spiritual message.”

Like a pack of hound dogs picking up the scent of prey, I noticed the other members of the committee starting to shift about in their chairs uneasily. Only one man, about my age, was sitting perfectly still and staring at the floor.

The farmer, Mr. Fiennes, kept a steady position in his chair of authority; his eyes focused on me the candidate for ordination. “Raymond, then let us imagine that you are a pastor preaching the Word, a sermon on the virgin birth at Christmas time. How would you communicate the divine, spiritual message of our Savior’s birth?”

“Sir”, I said with equal authority, “I would not focus on the conception of the baby Jesus. For myself, I do not need to believe that Mary was impregnated divinely in order to believe in Jesus as my Savior. I would preach a sermon that focused on the human experience of Jesus. I would tell the story of a poor family forced by political necessity to be on the road at a difficult time. I would talk about how God chose to become human and to suffer as we all suffer…”

“Excuse me, Raymond, excuse me once more, then how would you approach a sermon on Christ’s rising from the grave on Easter morning?”

“The resurrection”, I paused as I considered how to express my understanding of another central element in the Christian story. I also paused because I knew I was building a wall between myself and the candidates-care committee of the Beaver-Butler Presbytery. Maybe I was enjoying the confrontation. I have never been able to resist an opportunity to express my ideas in a good conversation. I looked into the eyes of every member of committee and finally settled on Mr. Fiennes: “The resurrection is another part of the Christian myth, like the virgin birth, their truth is not measured in terms of historical facts; rather, their truth is measured in the words of a story. The divine, in the person of Jesus, came to earth, lived, suffered death and was brought back to life again. Through this story we have modeled for us the gift of grace; we can make mistakes, even do bad things and still be forgiven. This is the good news I will preach. This is the story, the gift of grace that I will tell from the Bible.”

Like the hangman handing the noose to the convicted to hang himself, Mr. Fiennes smiled and said, “And what do you have to say about heaven?”

I did not turn back: “What happens when we die? I truly do not know. I am young and still in wonder at the idea of grace. As St Paul says in the book of Acts something like, ‘I do not account my life of value nor as precious to myself… as long as I testify to the gospel of the grace of God.’ So like Paul I hold to the idea that I will preach the grace of God, the forgiveness of sins, the chance to be wrong, to do wrong and to be forgiven and start over again. That is the miracle of the Christian faith for me.” There was silence in the room. Mr. Fiennes had no more questions.

“Tell us about your involvement in the seminary, Mr. Gray”, the speaker was another member of the committee. I guessed that he was a pastor, but I did not know his name.

“Well sir, I am married and I have a small son. I am kept busy with class work and childcare. My wife works as a nurse several evenings a week, so I spend a lot of my time with my son when I am not in class or studying.”

“Have you participated in any anti-war protests?” asked the man.

Now I felt a different form of challenge. I looked directly at him and said, “I am against the war in Vietnam. I am not a pacifist. There are times when war is the only alternative, but I do not believe this is one of those wars. I have participated in marches on Washington organized by a group called, Clergy and Laymen Concerned About Vietnam. I marched behind Martin Luther King one time.

“Have you participated in those southern boycotts?”

“No sir, my civil rights involvements have been more related to causes outside of the United States. Before starting seminary I spent two years in Latin America with the Peace Corps. Over the past few years I have spent time as an observer of elections in the Dominican Republic, part of group called, ‘Derechos Humanos’. I also spent a summer in Mexico participating in a workshop with others concerned with the human rights of poor people in Third World countries.”

“Excuse me one more time, Mr. Gray”, it was Mr. Fiennes again, “are you really interested in being ordained?”

This time I did not look him in the eyes. With my head down, I said, “I do want to serve the Church, but I don’t know how best to do it.”

There were no more questions. I was asked to step outside the room while the committee discussed my request to be ordained in the Presbyterian Church. Outside in the cold hallway I waited. I was still heated from my performance before the candidates-care committee. I walked back and forth as I thought of ways I might have better expressed myself. To tell the truth today, nearly fifty years later, I am still not sure that I did not go into that meeting with an unconscious intention to cut my ties to the Church.

Regardless of my unconscious intentions, I was not prepared for the results of the meeting. I started to feel the chill in the cold hallway and to become uncomfortable with the length of time the committee members needed to make their decision. I was looking at my watch–half an hour had passed–when the door opened. I was called back into the board room of the bank. Now I felt a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I returned to my seat at the opposite end of the table from the farmer from Zelienople, Pennsylvania.

“Raymond, this committee has given serious consideration to your fitness for ordination”, said Mr. Fiennes. I felt the heavy feeling in my belly turn to real pain. I tried to look Mr. Fiennes in the eyes, but my head kept turning down to the floor. I imagine I looked like a boxer being pummeled with blows to the belly, his head bobbing up and down, trying to gain some balance. “Raymond this committee has decided that you are not prepared to take a position of leadership in the Presbyterian Church. At this time we will not recommend you for ordination. However, we want to offer to you the opportunity to think about your beliefs and your role as an ordained minister in the Church. We will be happy to meet with you again in one year, after you have had time to reconsider your ideas on Christian theology and the role the minister in the Church.

The cold rain on the car windshield made it difficult to see the road leading away from Zelienople, Pennsylvania. Tears rolled down my cheeks; I understand the pain I was carrying home to my mother and father’s house; they had so looked forward to talking about their son, Rev. Raymond Gray. I cried for my wife who was six months pregnant with our second child. She wanted a husband who would earn a steady income and provide a home for his family. For me, the tears were an ablution, a cleansing, a clearing of the path to find a new way to serve in this world. By the grace of God, I found Mr. Fiennes from Zelienople, Pennsylvania and he helped me change directions and become what I was meant to be, not what others wanted me to be!

So maybe it is not always a bad idea to “cut and run”. Maybe better said, “sometimes yes, sometimes no”. Life is full of decision and sometimes we get them right and sometimes we get them wrong. But here is the beauty of the idea of grace: we are allowed to make mistakes, be forgiven and begin over and over again. For me, I am sure of one thing, I was not meant to be a Presbyterian minister, I was meant to be a storyteller who searches the world over for stories that help us to make sense of the world we live in!

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Fall is quickly passing and signs of winter are in the flower gardens. Nancy and I returned in late October from two weeks in New England. I told stories at the Power of Words Conference in Vermont; and after that, we spent eight days on the Maine coast. This latter quiet time gave me an opportunity to reflect on my past two years of work on the mouse story–an animal fantasy that is set at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution in America–and volunteering at the National Museum of Industrial History. Do I want to continue my focus on promoting the book and creating other stories related to our industrial past?

I have decided to cut back on my volunteer work at NMIH as a gallery guide. I spent a year trying to generate an interest in talking about a big room full of machines. I could not convince myself to spent time learning about the machines and talking intelligently about what they did in a steel mill. I gave visitors a general introduction to the four exhibits in the museum and then left it to them to read and understand the purpose and task of each machine. And, there were many visitors who applied themselves to learning about the machines. There were also many visitors who lost interest like me and left the museum after a half-hour of looking at machines. I think they need more stories about the people who ran the machines and less about the machines.

Along that line of thinking, I want to share –perhaps just the beginning–a biographical sketch of my own father WHO WAS A MACHINIST! Yes, my father spent forty years of his life working in a steel mill. After an apprenticeship, he worked mostly on a lathe crafting replacement part for machines that had broken down in different parts of the mill. This required him to take measurement and sketch plans for crafting the replacement part.I still have the micrometer he used to measure objects to within one ten-thousands of an inch. He loved to show me as a boy how he could measure the thickness of the evening newspaper. He was proud to be a man who not only ran a machine; he made the parts that facilitated the function of the machine. But the story I want to tell is not about the machinist, I want to tell about the young man who became a machinist.

My father, Cecil Warren Gray, was born into a family of simple country people who lived in the hills of western Pennsylvania. His mother was the daughter of farmers who had emigrated from Germany in the late 19th century. His father was a son of English blood. The family came to America in the early 17th century, but somehow they managed to remain poor for three hundred years. Cecil’s father was a coal miner who died at the age of forty-one after a mysterious incident in the mine. Cecil was seventeen at the time and already trying to find his place as an adult. He had finished his education after the eighth grade and started to work at a variety manual labor jobs.

There was one strong influence that I think directed young Cecil’s future. His uncle, on his mother’s side of the family, was involved in the discovery of oil in western Pennsylvania and eventually followed the oil industry to Oklahoma in the early part of the 20th century. This spawned in young Cecil a drive to go west. Two time in the early 1930’s Cecil set out from Pennsylvania to go west. One trip ended in Oklahoma where he lived in the home of his rich, oilman uncle for a short time. For some reason he did not stay with his uncle and find work in the oil fields. This was never explained. Maybe he was not ready to settle down in one place. Another time he headed west, only this time he was headed to California. He made it to the west coast, but again he could not, or did not want to settle down to find work and make a new life.

Many nights as a boy, I listened to my father’s stories of his adventures going west. When he had money he traveled by bus and by train. When the money was exhausted, he hitch-hiked and rode freight trains as a hobo. I remember one story of him hitch-hiking somewhere in the Midwest and being pick-up by a Chicago gangster–as my father described the man. Another story told of riding a freight train somewhere in Texas and being kicked off the train at a water stop somewhere in the vast plains of west Texas. He was chased by local hooligans and saved his life by running faster than they could run. Another story told of sleeping under a bridge on a stormy night. The river flooded and washed away his only pair of shoes.

As a boy my imagination was stimulated by my father’s stories of adventure. Of course, his stories–if I think about it– were contradicted by the man that I knew all of the time that I was growing up. My father was the machinist. He got up every morning at six-thirty and went to the mill to work. He punched the time clock, worked eight hours over a machine, punched the time clock again and came home for evening supper. Maybe I had the best of both worlds. I had the stability his boring machines provided and periodically I heard his wonderful stories of adventure. Now I see that my father, Cecil Warren Gray, was both a machinist and a storyteller. Maybe I should not be too hard on people who love machines. Even they have stories. Maybe I am convincing myself to begin interviewing retired steel workers to bring to life their stories?

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