This year, after my 42nd silent retreat at Demontreville, I found myself reflecting over a different kind of lesson — one not from the retreat master, but from a conversation with my daughter.
My daughter Chris and I could hardly be further apart politically. I lean toward policies that support immigrants, the poor, minorities, and the sick. She supports Trump and the Republican agenda, which I believe diminishes those very groups. Our conversation was brief, but it revealed something that I have been mulling over ever since.
When it comes to personal interactions, my daughter is tactful, gracious, and considerate. She knows how to get along with people, soften conflict, and maintain civility. I, by contrast, am often blunt and confrontational. When I disagree, I rarely hide it. I leave enemies in my wake since I have little tolerance for greed and immoral people. She accuses me of being harsh, even inhumane, in my manner.
And yet, when I step back, I see an irony. My brusque words are often in service of a vision of justice for the many. Her gentle tone exists alongside a commitment to policies that, in practice, withdraw support from those most in need. In fact, the Trumpian policies she supports will result in starvation, disease and death for millions.
This tension raises a deeper question: what does it mean to be a true humanist?
Is it the ability to show kindness in the moment, face-to-face, even if one’s broader commitments bring harm to many unseen lives? Or is it the willingness to fight for systemic justice, even if the style of delivery offends, unsettles, or disturbs?
I think of Christ, who could be gentle with the broken and the poor, yet fierce with the powerful and the hypocritical. He healed with a touch, but he also overturned tables. His humanity was both intimate and systemic.
Perhaps that is the lesson I am being given now. Humanism is not one thing. It asks us to be kind in the small circle of our relationships but also bold in the larger circle of society. Without the first, justice grows cold. Without the second, kindness becomes complicity.
I wonder if my daughter and I — so different in politics, so different in style — are each holding half of a larger truth.
I come back into myself and say, “Let’s take a walk.” It is a beautiful day and a beautiful town, and everyone likes the idea. We pay our respective bills, head to the bathrooms, and meet outside. I suggest we walk the path alongside the river to PD Pappy’s than turn left onto Main Street where we can walk by the various tourist shops. We head to an old antique store that we last visited almost a year ago to the day. We spend a good hour or so in the store. We see oodles of things that bring back memories from our childhoods, our old dreams and our wish-we-had-done that pasts. We leave having bought nothing except a wistful yearning for the “Good Old Days.” Pre-Trump. Pre-Covid. Pre-Climate Change. Pre-Divisive Partisanship. A time when we could still believe in the American Dream.
As we walk down main street, Roger tells me that he has seen a show recently that looks at the symbolism in the Catholic Church with a deep sense of skepticism. He asks me if I think the Catholic belief in Jesus would be much different if Jesus had been garroted or beheaded rather than crucified. I confess that I have never thought about this question, but I do find it intriguing.
It is now almost three hours since we met for dinner. We are talked and walked out. I am ready for my afternoon nap. Karen wants to get back to her sewing. Jane is tired of listening to us and wants some peace and quiet. Roger is still thinking about God and whether there is other life in the universe. We both seem to have come to the same counter-intuitive conclusion that there is not. We are all alone in the universe except for a few Martians left over from the great Martian cataclysm.
The strangeness of the situation caused me to be somewhat nervous about proceeding further but I thought, I have nothing to fear from an old lady. Coming nearer to the woman, I jokingly asked if she was the same old woman whom I had met years ago and if she remembered me. “Yes”, she said, “but you were much younger then. How did your journey down the Farewell to Life trail go?” How could this be I thought? I don’t believe in magic, miracles, or spirits but suddenly, I began to take her words quite seriously.
Now suddenly your partner for one reason or another is gone. She or he passes away. You come back to your home after the funeral and well-wishers have left, and you are now alone. You are more alone than you have ever been in your entire life. You go from room to room and no one else is there. The bedroom is empty. The kitchen is empty. The living room is empty. You notice the picture of you and your spouse at your anniversary party hanging on the wall. It brings back memories and tears. Every day for many days, objects, thoughts, and reflections will bring back good times and bad times that you shared with your lover. You will reflect over and over again about these past times. No doubt you will feel remorse about some things that you did and wish you could undo. You will also miss the fun things that you enjoyed together and the many good times that you had together.
Each evening after dinner, we enjoy food, dancing, and music at the Playa Bonita restaurant. It is right on the beach and while enjoying shrimp cocktails, we watch the most beautiful sunsets I have seen anywhere. As night falls, a band or singer will begin entertaining our group. Evalia loves to dance and will make sure that we all have a spin with her on the dance floor. The dance floor is outside where we eat. Almost always the weather is balmy and comfortable. Infrequently one might need a shawl or a sweater but an active time on the dance floor will mitigate any night chills.
Aging Capriciously 