The Heart Of The Matter

The Heart of the Matter

There were signs, hundreds of them of every shape, color, and type. They were there when I woke up in the morning and there when I finally closed my eyes at night. There were some that would not leave and followed me into my dreams.

Looking back and reflecting on many of my experiences, it wasn’t difficult to recognize some of the obvious “life-signs” that passed my way. In some form or fashion, there were many “Stop, Dead End, Speed Limit, Detour,” as well as the “Thou shalt not” signs. For someone who seemingly had a predisposition for testing the rationale and limits for rules and authority, they were amazingly ubiquitous, easy to identify, and very direct in their message.

However, on the other end of the continuum, far more subtle and less conspicuous were the haunting “Is this all there is to life?” signs. They were more abstract, further off the side of the road, and far less frequent. Nevertheless, their timing was impeccable. They always seemed to know when to show up. Not so surprisingly, it was directly proportional to the level of futility and the emptiness I was feeling in my circumstances. I would like to say it was rooted in the frustration of not having many choices; choices about churches, schools, and whether or not to wear uniforms, but that would not be the truth. It was much deeper than that. I wanted to be connected with something larger than my circumstances; something that would offer hope rather than the fatalistic perspective, “well, that’s life.” Not having that connection, I struggled to know what to do with them. Too often I retreated to the clamor of family living hoping it would distract me enough to erase the troubling challenge that kept rearing its ugly head and resurfacing over and over again in my mind.

I grew up in a large Irish – Italian family; that, in itself, should speak volumes in terms of distractions. Stimulating the senses and elevating emotions was as fundamental as eating pasta or corned beef and cabbage. The Irish side in particular, with their innate love of parties, knew how to ratchet up the level of stimulation. They could throw together a party in a matter of moments. All it took was a chance meeting between a few, and then quick phone calls to the rest. It was amazing to me to observe, in the span of an evening, singing, dancing, and riotous laughter mixed with debates, diatribes and, regrettably on rare occasions, physical violence, all fueled by too much alcohol. Who needed television? It was live theatre, often of the bizarre.

One night, I watched one of my aunts, responding in a fit of anger to an indiscreet remark, fill a one quart saucepan with cold water which she intended to throw on her inebriated husband. The pot slipped out of her hand as she threw the water and hit my uncle square in the forehead. It knocked him out cold. He, being six foot four inches tall and two hundred and seventy pounds, fell over like a redwood. The sound when he hit the floor was like a two hundred and seventy five pound sack of potatoes being hurled off the upstairs balcony onto the wood floor below. She immediately leaned over his prostrate body to make sure he was still breathing and not bleeding. Once she had confirmed he was “okay,” she began to chastise him for being a drunk and getting what he deserved.

The McDonoughs, my mother’s side of the family, were not a clan for the faint at heart.   They thrived on stimulation. It seemed to energize every part of their being. If the Catholic Church would have allowed, they would have canonized a new Saint, Saint Stimulation, and given her a feast day. It would have given them another reason to “Eat, drink, and be merry…and duck every once in a while.”

Growing up, it was easy to be entertained and consumed by their feisty walk on the wild side. The crescendos of family clamor proved the perfect diversion for those moments when those thought provoking “life signs” stepped into view.

None the less it didn’t take long to realize that the distractions were only a temporary remedy. The different forms of stimulation, which early on anesthetized the hollow feelings, began to lose their potency. I started to fill in the gaps with my own brand of drama. From my sophomore year in high school through my sophomore year in college, I deliberately chose a circle of friends who were open to pushing the limits of uncharted territory. Yet no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t eliminate the frustration and desperation that was building up inside of me.

There was something missing. I could feel it, but I couldn’t identify it.

The quote from Plotinus at the onset of this chapter speaks about a wise man recognizing signs, learning one thing from another. I have never held any misconceptions about being wise. Most of my learning has come from making mistakes. I found out what was right by experiencing first what I had done wrong. I don’t think that was exactly what Plotinus was insinuating. I wish I had been more adept at sensing some of the signs; it would have saved me from a great deal of wandering and poor choices.

Geoffrey Chaucer, the famous English poet and author of the Canterbury Tales, wrote in The Nun’s Priest Tale the admonition: “Be wise, keep the grain but leave the chaff.” For a long, long time I never could learn to leave the chaff alone. I unwisely thought of it as tasty as the grain. This was certainly one of the poorer choices I made and contributed to my learning and relearning the age old adage: there never has been, and will never be, a free lunch.