Memorial Day

All too often, we tend to forget the reason for some of our extended weekends. Having grown complacent, we look forward to leisure, and lose sight of the deeper meaning that these days have been assigned. Today, for example, is Memorial Day. A day to reflect on the terrible price paid by those who have served and died to secure and protect our liberty. When we think of this, many of us think generically of fallen soldiers, and may feel a vague sadness. Unless we have lost loved ones in war, few of us have reason to consider specific soldiers who make up the statistics.

Consider, then, Sullivan Ballou. Born in Rhode Island in 1829, Sullivan spent his years before the war as a public servant. A lawyer, and speaker of the Rhode Island House of Representatives, he was a patriot who enlisted immediately after the Civil War began, a father of 2 young sons, and a husband whose love for his wife should move us all to tears. I've pasted a letter below that he wrote, to his wife Sarah, one of the most famous letters to come from that war.

My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .

Sullivan died at the age of 32 a week later, at the first Battle of Bull Run. Remember him, if you have no one else to remember on Memorial Day.

Expectations

Lately, I've had several occasions which have forced me to readjust the expectations that I've set in front of me for what defines my happiness. Well, if I'm honest with myself, that's still a work in progress. Either way, it's obvious that I won't find it as quickly, or as simply, as I had hoped to. I realize that we choose whether or not we're going to be happy, and I still consciously devote myself to that choice. The reality of that choice, and how I bring the result to fruition, have changed.

A month ago, I was propelled by the momentum of newly found personal freedom into believing that, by sheer force of will, I could force every day to be the best day of my life. I believed that, in making the choice, I was creating the result. I've found that this is not completely true. My interpretation of the conscious decision to be happy would lead me to believe that, by doing my laundry and seeing my kids, today was a better day than those on which any of my children were born. A better day than the last day that I kissed someone that I was truly in love with. This cheapens the value of those days which were truly special, and makes the value of my every day life out to be far more than what it really is.

It also falsely elevated the quality of those days which, conscious decision or not, really were days that could have been better. The day that I realized what the reality of my marriage was going to be. The day that I broke my arm as a kid. Any of the days that involved car accidents. Those were not going to be good days, whether I wanted them to or not. At best, they could be seen as days that were the accent to highlight what the truly good days are supposed to be. They were not the best days of my life.

Today was not the best day of my life. And that's okay. Because that day is coming. And that's the lesson that life has been trying to teach me, I think. Rather than trying to focus on forcing every day to be the best day of my life, I should relax, and just let the day be what it is. Instead of wasting my energy in trying to make the day what it wasn't intended to be, I should conserve that energy, and pour it into recognizing the truly special days for what they are. I'll let you all know the next time that a day like that pops up.

Guilt and the Good Man

I recently read "The Kite Runner", by Khaled Hosseini. It was a wonderfully moving story, in which the main character makes a tragic mistake as a boy, and lives with the guilt his entire life, until given an opportunity to atone for it. Two phrases from that book struck me, and really caused me to examine my relationship with myself. "There is a way to be good again." and "A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer."

I am currently in a wonderful state of flux. I have never been happier in my life. At the same time, my actions are causing great grief to people who love me dearly. Without retreading ground that has already been churned to mud, I will say that I recently decided to end my 12 year marriage. I believed at the time that I had good reasons, and I still believe that. It's been several months now, and I'm starting to set the legal gears in motion and begin the process. I still see my children just about every day, and most of the weekends. I provide for them. I show them a happier me than they have ever seen. The person hurt the most by all of this is their mother.

I am a deeply empathic person. I feel the hurt of others keenly, as though it were my own. To see someone that I care about in so much pain is difficult, and I try to give her what comfort and assurance I can, but obviously that can only go so far. I am, after all, still leaving her without a husband. I have family who are conservative Christians, who believe that I should go back, and try to work it out. I know that if I were to do that, I would be miserable, because I am the only person responsible for my own happiness, and I refuse to put myself back into that situation. Having been raised by conservative Christians, though, I battle guilt. I was raised to believe that adultery was the only acceptable reason to leave a marriage. This model of matrimony, however, breeds miserable couples who suffer in silence when there is no longer an alternative route to happiness than to leave.

This sense of guilt haunts me. Some part of me insists that I feel bad for being this happy, when it so obviously causes the pain of someone else. I can't give in to that instinct, though. I have to own my own happiness, plot my own course to the life that I want to live. I have to learn to accept the fact that, as much as I would like, I can't make everyone in my life happy. Our life is a short, constant stream of the consequences of our actions. I live today by the result of the choices that I have made. For the first time in my life I'm comfortable with who I am. For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I believe myself to be a good man. For the first time in my life, I feel truly happy. The work will be hard, the road will be long, but it's the right road. I have found the way to be good again.

On the shore of Watts Bar Lake

Peace. Tranquility. Woodsmoke and water on the breeze. The constant sound of waves lapping at the shore nearby. The quack of a duck. In this moment, I am full, as full as any man deserves to be. I feel the lightness of it, each moment passing effortlessly, marked only by the measure of my breath. This is what each moment in life should be.

The Lucky Man

In Irish Gaelic, Fear Ámharach means "Lucky Man". For those who followed my previous blog experience, this is a big change from being an Amadáin, or "Fool". I've come to the realization that the human experience is short; too short to be spent in misery. Rather than wallow in self doubt and unhappiness, I've decided to embrace the joy that life has to offer. I've decided that every day that I am gifted with is going to be better than the day before. Every day is going to be the best day of my life. I'm enveloping myself in the love of my children, the love of my family, the love of my friends, and the wonders of the world around me. Appreciating every breath, every breeze, every sunrise and sunset. I'm committing myself to giving the love that I want to get in return, with the knowledge that no energy spent on giving love is wasted energy. I walk from my past a better man, looking to the dreams that I nurture for the life that lays ahead of me. I will continue to try to become the better man; the man that my children deserve, the man that my family knows that I can be, the man that someday my soulmate will find by her side. I wake up each morning with a laugh in my throat and a smile on my lips because I know. I know that I am a lucky man, fortunate indeed.