When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
William Butler Yeats
1865-1939, Irish Poet, Playwright
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
An Easily Forgotten Legacy
He fumbled for his keys as he approached the front door of his country cottage down at the end of the long, nameless dirt road. If it wasn't the arthritis in his left foot that was acting up this evening, it was his back straining as he stepped up onto the front porch. Finally finding the correct key as he stood face to face with the off-white colored door, he paused a moment looking down at the stoop. His breathing slowed as he stepped into the foyer, the musty smells of his 80 year old home reaching his nostrils. Placing his keys and wallet on the mirrored table next to the coat and hat rack, he stood silently for a moment and took in a deep breath. With a long sigh, he inched his way into the kitchen to start his dinner.
His eyes were sad, his face long and wrinkled; gray whiskers peaked out from behind his pale skin and the creases from his down-turned lips seemed to ease into their normal position as he let his work demeanor melt off. White streaked short blond hair, freckles still showing on his arms after all these years, and tall, he held a commanding appearance at first glance but his gaze would give him away to the more sensitive observer. He had a delightful chuckle when he laughed and a warm heart for others, but it merely masked another side of him few people ever knew … or would ever know.
Peter's home was much like those you'd see in the 1940s. Imperfect glass in the windows distorting the country view, lacy linens hanging on the outside of his drab window blinds, dingy wallpaper that had periodic fleur-de-lis patterns peppered about, creaky wood floors each room with their own sound giving away which one the walker was in, black and white photos of his various family
members strewn about the walls, the long mantel over the fireplace with various knickknacks from around the world, and disrupted dust particles slowly drifting through the sunset light that seeped into the room. It wasn't a very big home but it was where he was most comfortable.
Two months ago, Peter turned 68. He was nearing the end of his illustrious career with the company he had joined in his mid-thirties. Finally finding his niche in life professionally, he quickly worked up the ladder to become a supervisor, a manager, a district manager, vice president, and finally, regional vice president for the European offices. Many people he worked with admired Peter for his tenacity and ability to constantly do well at his job but their admiration did not carry on much further. You see, he was easily likable but just as easily forgotten.
It all started during his younger years in middle school. Peter quickly went from being a popular, social boy in elementary school to being one of the most bullied and mocked children in his class. Coming from a sheltered, conservative home, Peter's parents knew what turmoil he was experiencing in school but felt it best to let him sort it all out on his own. Sadly, it only created a deep lack of self-esteem and an insecurity inside he would never be rid of. Although quite an eccentric, tactile, and animated man during his early adult years, Peter could never quite shake his deep desires to be liked by all, loved by someone, and constantly reminded of how great he was as a worker and person. Conceptually, he could never quite understand why most everyone he met would like him in passing, but never make an effort to develop something more meaningful as time went on.
Fortunately, Peter enjoyed success in his work and although it never quite satisfied his deeper desires, it was enough to get him to this point in life. Now, with only a few months left before his retirement was to begin, he still continued his ritual of shaking off the “work Peter” and donning the “lonely Peter” as he crossed his front doorstep. Even though at home he felt comfortable—closed off from the rest of the world in an environment that pleased him and only him—it still did not remove the ache he felt in his heart knowing he was going to pass along through the rest of his life alone. Never married, no kids, and his only true friend of sixty one years having passed away recently from cancer, Peter's life was now drawing to a very solitary close. Closing in such a way that routine and normalcy would nary skip a beat.
As he slept that night, he felt warmth creep up from his toes which was not something he was used to. Having poor circulation in his limbs, Peter almost always felt chilly during the cooler Spring evenings. He turned his eyes to the window to see the moon and star light shimmer on the leaves of the foliage outside. A sense of peace suddenly washed away his constant feelings of loneliness and Peter smiled gently. His legs were beginning to feel warm and somewhere inside, he knew it was time. His eyes rolled back and shut as he sniffed the old, musty air one more time. One last time before his mind went dark.
It seemed like days before Peter began to wake. He could feel the bright light coming through his eyelids and dared not open them too quickly. Awareness seemed to be much more prevalent in his mind and more importantly, in his emotions. Easing his eyes open he could feel the strain of his pupils as they attempted to adjust to the brightness. There was no panic, no pain, his left foot felt nimble again, his back no longer ached, but his heart still felt a heaviness. As he worked into the bright blindness that welcomed him, he felt the presence of someone else next to him. Peter's voice cracked as he greeted the stranger. Then he heard a voice; a voice that seemed to pierce directly into his soul, a voice he not only heard but felt.
The voice said to him, “There is a strange charm in the thoughts of a good legacy which wondrously removed the sorrow that others would have otherwise felt for your death. You lived and never stopped living, therefore you have left such a legacy.”
CMW
His eyes were sad, his face long and wrinkled; gray whiskers peaked out from behind his pale skin and the creases from his down-turned lips seemed to ease into their normal position as he let his work demeanor melt off. White streaked short blond hair, freckles still showing on his arms after all these years, and tall, he held a commanding appearance at first glance but his gaze would give him away to the more sensitive observer. He had a delightful chuckle when he laughed and a warm heart for others, but it merely masked another side of him few people ever knew … or would ever know.
Peter's home was much like those you'd see in the 1940s. Imperfect glass in the windows distorting the country view, lacy linens hanging on the outside of his drab window blinds, dingy wallpaper that had periodic fleur-de-lis patterns peppered about, creaky wood floors each room with their own sound giving away which one the walker was in, black and white photos of his various family
members strewn about the walls, the long mantel over the fireplace with various knickknacks from around the world, and disrupted dust particles slowly drifting through the sunset light that seeped into the room. It wasn't a very big home but it was where he was most comfortable.Two months ago, Peter turned 68. He was nearing the end of his illustrious career with the company he had joined in his mid-thirties. Finally finding his niche in life professionally, he quickly worked up the ladder to become a supervisor, a manager, a district manager, vice president, and finally, regional vice president for the European offices. Many people he worked with admired Peter for his tenacity and ability to constantly do well at his job but their admiration did not carry on much further. You see, he was easily likable but just as easily forgotten.
It all started during his younger years in middle school. Peter quickly went from being a popular, social boy in elementary school to being one of the most bullied and mocked children in his class. Coming from a sheltered, conservative home, Peter's parents knew what turmoil he was experiencing in school but felt it best to let him sort it all out on his own. Sadly, it only created a deep lack of self-esteem and an insecurity inside he would never be rid of. Although quite an eccentric, tactile, and animated man during his early adult years, Peter could never quite shake his deep desires to be liked by all, loved by someone, and constantly reminded of how great he was as a worker and person. Conceptually, he could never quite understand why most everyone he met would like him in passing, but never make an effort to develop something more meaningful as time went on.
Fortunately, Peter enjoyed success in his work and although it never quite satisfied his deeper desires, it was enough to get him to this point in life. Now, with only a few months left before his retirement was to begin, he still continued his ritual of shaking off the “work Peter” and donning the “lonely Peter” as he crossed his front doorstep. Even though at home he felt comfortable—closed off from the rest of the world in an environment that pleased him and only him—it still did not remove the ache he felt in his heart knowing he was going to pass along through the rest of his life alone. Never married, no kids, and his only true friend of sixty one years having passed away recently from cancer, Peter's life was now drawing to a very solitary close. Closing in such a way that routine and normalcy would nary skip a beat.
As he slept that night, he felt warmth creep up from his toes which was not something he was used to. Having poor circulation in his limbs, Peter almost always felt chilly during the cooler Spring evenings. He turned his eyes to the window to see the moon and star light shimmer on the leaves of the foliage outside. A sense of peace suddenly washed away his constant feelings of loneliness and Peter smiled gently. His legs were beginning to feel warm and somewhere inside, he knew it was time. His eyes rolled back and shut as he sniffed the old, musty air one more time. One last time before his mind went dark.
It seemed like days before Peter began to wake. He could feel the bright light coming through his eyelids and dared not open them too quickly. Awareness seemed to be much more prevalent in his mind and more importantly, in his emotions. Easing his eyes open he could feel the strain of his pupils as they attempted to adjust to the brightness. There was no panic, no pain, his left foot felt nimble again, his back no longer ached, but his heart still felt a heaviness. As he worked into the bright blindness that welcomed him, he felt the presence of someone else next to him. Peter's voice cracked as he greeted the stranger. Then he heard a voice; a voice that seemed to pierce directly into his soul, a voice he not only heard but felt.
The voice said to him, “There is a strange charm in the thoughts of a good legacy which wondrously removed the sorrow that others would have otherwise felt for your death. You lived and never stopped living, therefore you have left such a legacy.”
CMW
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