MY ESSENCE IS PERFECTION [F, 7-18-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Essence of An Old Man—MY ESSENCE IS PERFECTION [F, 7-18-25]

 

I am re-reading Healthy Aging, by Andrew Weil, MD. In Chapter 17, he talks about “unchanging essence.” [1]

He notes that all of us change as we age. Obviously, our bodies change, but so do our brains and our emotions. We learn new information, get new insights. We are not exactly the same persons today that we were yesterday.

There is, however, an “unchanging essence,” that which has always been and will always be the core of who we are. He gives a whole page of questions to help us determine what that essence is, for we shall age better if we know that personal essence.

It doesn’t take me a whole page to know my essential identity. I am still that little boy who always wanted to be perfect.

I didn’t want to be perfect for bad reasons, so that I could lord my perfection over others. I wanted perfection so that there would be no reason for anyone to criticize me or punish me. Especially, I did not want to have to criticize or punish myself. I wanted to be at-one-ment with God and with myself. I did not want to suffer, either the criticisms of others or the doubts and guilts of myself.

Yes, I wanted everyone to like me, but that is sort of a sub-category of perfection. When I was young, I did not know how hard it is for people to like you when you are perfect.

I learned early that perfection is not possible, but if perfection is your essence, you have to find excuses for your imperfection, because you are still going to try to be true to your essence, still try to be perfect, even when you know you can’t be.

[That’s how essence is: it keeps on trying even when it doesn’t work, even when it knows it doesn’t work.]

There are three excuses we use for not being perfect.

One excuse for imperfection is denial, but that’s never been helpful to me. I can’t claim to be perfect where there is so much evidence to the contrary, especially when there are so many folks willing to point out that evidence.

Another excuse for imperfection is the actions of others. My mother often said, “Look what you made me do!” It’s hard to be perfect when you are causing imperfections even in others.

A third excuse is circumstances. The weather did it. Or society. Or a dog tripped me, or ate it.

Well, there may be more than three excuses. So, you expected me to know them all? I’m not perfect, you know… [Oh, that’s the fourth one—blame others for their expectations.]

John Robert McFarland

1] Weil’s book was pretty good when it was published 20 years ago. He was a pioneer in integrative medicine. I don’t recommend it now, though. He’s not a particularly good writer, and he puts in too much extraneous stuff. Other writers are more up-to-date. However, if you like the food and cooking aspects of health, he’s very much into that.

“The toughest thing about success is that you’ve got to keep on being a success.” Irving Berlin [Writer’s Almanac]

 

I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU; PLEASE GO AWAY

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU; PLEASE GO AWAY [T, 7-15-25]

 

I recently had a very nice encounter with a man I’ll call Rick. Over ten years, we have occasionally met as we walked the narrow sidewalks of our pleasant neighborhood. Now that Heather has moved, we are the only early morning walkers.

He said, “I’ve been worried about you. I haven’t seen you for so long. I asked around about you, but…”

Asking around in our neighborhood, about anything, will usually result in, “But…”

We are good neighbors in our ‘hood. We greet one another. But if we know another’s name, it is only the first name.

I think the dogs are responsible for that. I know the names of all the dogs in the neighborhood, but they think they are celebrities, and use only one name, like Waggs or Blue, so we humans have begun to do the same, like Madonna or Lizzo. [Yes, I know who Lizzo is.]

I explained to Rick that I had not walked for several months because of my bad hip, but that I was able to walk now because of physical therapy.

Rick did what we all do in a casual conversation. He heard something that caught his attention and went with that, rather than remembering that he was supposed to be worrying about me, since he had not seen me for so long.

“My mother had to have physical therapy. She had a stroke at Thanksgiving time,” he said. He went on to describe his mother’s symptoms before and after PT. “Not surprising that she’s slow to recover,” he said, “because she’s almost 89.”

Almost 89? Guess who else is almost 89! [I thought that; didn’t say it out loud.]

I was dumbstruck. Rick is an old guy. Obviously retired. Yes, he walks better than I do. He’s faster, long loping stride. But I thought that he and I were the same age. No, his mother and I are the same age! That means he must be the same age as my children.

So now I have done it, the same as Rick, the same as we are all wont to do until we learn to listen--hearing that thing that caught my attention and took me away from the main point.

No, the main point is not that I misread his age, that I’m old enough to be his father. No, the main point is that he was worried about me. That is what I need to hear, not that I’m once again flummoxed by how old I am.

Here’s the point: It’s nice to have folks glad you’re present. And it’s nice when they notice your absence and worry about you.

I think a lot of the trouble makers in the world, nobody noticed them when they were absent, so they had to act out their frustrations in order to get attention, to get noticed. Those folks, we need to say to them, “I noticed your absence. I worried about you.”

Now, though, before we can say it, those folks will need to be absent, go away. We probably have the same folks in mind.

John Robert McFarland

My older sister used to work for a travel agency. Their business slogan was, “Please Go Away.” For cruises, it was “Please Go Aweigh.”

 

 

STARTING AT ONE [SAT, 7-12-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—STARTING AT ONE [SAT, 7-12-25]

 

Daughter Katie told us about a little child who called Grandpa to wish him a happy birthday. “How old are you?” she asked. “62,” Grandpa replied. There was a long pause, and then she said, “Did you start at one?”

I recently wrote [6-20-25] about the importance of counting down. Counting up is important, too.  

When I was in grade school, at Lucretia Mott PS # 3, in Indianapolis, we received a weekly “newspaper.” It was about four pages, and often had illustrated articles about what life would be like in the future, especially the 21^st century. The accompanying drawings would show flying automobiles, and people hopping from car to school in space suits, and kids eating a school lunch that was just a little tablet.

I thought it would be neat to experience that, at least a car that could fly, and I asked my mother if she thought I would live to see the 21^st century. After all, I would be 63 when that century arrived, an almost impossible age to comprehend, even though I was starting the counting up at a bit higher than one. Mother allowed as how it was possible that I would see the 21^st century. She was right, even though it took a lot more counting up.

Old friend and former student, Dennis Heller, telephoned recently. He congratulated us on our 66^th wedding anniversary. Then, without meaning to, I think, he gave us a goal. He told us of a couple that has been married 81 years! That’s a lot of counting up! [1]

I have now counted up 25 years into this 21^st century, this century which once seemed so far away. A lot of stuff in those pictures in my grade school paper has happened. I’m disappointed about the flying cars, though.

We could really use flying cars. The roads are clogged. No one can get anywhere.

We used to have trains and buses. What happened to them? Wouldn’t it be better if we had good public transportation? Our idea of public transportation is a Uber, just another car to clog the roads and foul the air.

Yes, but we don’t have public transportation. Or flying cars. We have to live in the reality of our own time. There are no time machines. We get no choice about when we shall live. Only about how…

We all start at one, and count up…

John Robert McFarland

1] They are each 99.

THE HEAVENLY FESTIVAL [W, 7-9-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Speculations of An Old Man—THE HEAVENLY FESTIVAL [W, 7-9-25]

 

 [Fear not; You believe in God; believe also that there will be a Christian application, sort of, at the end.]

It’s fair and festival season.

It’s time for the Toledo, Iowa “Stoplight Festival.” Toledo now has three stoplights, but the festival celebrates only the first one. It was the only one for many years, starting in 1949. It’s still there, smack dab in the middle of the intersection, on a sturdy metal pole, about five feet tall.

Every town needs a festival, something to rally around, build community, see local girls in bathing suits, eat rubber pancakes, sell raffle tickets to get a new defibrillator for the volunteer fire dept.

If the only thing you have that sets you apart is a stoplight, then you have a Stoplight Festival.

When I pastored in Arcola, IL, we had two festivals, one long-standing and one that started while we were there, because folks felt that one festival wasn’t enough to keep us going.

 

The first is the famous Broom Corn Festival. Broom corn is exactly what it sounds like—a corn-like plant that provided the bristles for brooms. It was grown locally, and so broom factories located there. The most famous of those is Libman. You can see their ads on TV all the time. Now most of the brooms have plastic bristles, and broom corn is imported from Mexico, but that doesn’t slow down the festival. One little patch of broom corn is still grown in Arcola so its harvesting can be demonstrated during the festival.

When we lived there, Arcola started the Raggedy Ann Festival. The connection to Arcola was tenuous. Johnny Gruelle created Raggedy Ann. He was born in Arcola. He moved away when he was two. No one was sure if he ever returned. But if you don’t have even one stoplight, you create a festival from whatever you can find. 

A few years ago, an Arcola bank was robbed. One of the local jokes was, “Now we’ll have to have a Bank Robbery Festival.” [1]

Garrison Keillor paid tribute to the small-town festival ethos with Toast & Jelly Days in Lake Wobegon, MN.

Cities try to have community-building festivals, like the Taste of Chicago. But they fall flat. Too many people and too few tastes. Everybody who lives in Toledo, Iowa passes that stoplight every day. That makes every day a festival.

Most of us, when we think of heaven, just lying around on cloud 9 all day, playing the harp, doing nothing…well, that sounds boring. When we think of heaven, it’s the community we look forward to. [They don’t worry much in heaven about ending a sentence with a preposition.]

If heaven is worthwhile, it’s got to be for the community, seeing all the folks we love who are already there. Which is why I think heaven is just a small-town summer festival. You know everybody. All the old relatives show up. There is music and laughter. Some local kid, who went away and made it big, like Jesus, gets to be the parade marshal. God tells Dad jokes at the talent contest. Isn’t that enough to make you want to go there?

And if that’s not exactly the way it is in the next life, at least it’s fun to think about in this life.

John Robert McFarland

1] A side light on the bank robbery: it was one of several in small towns in the area, done on his lunch hour by a counselor at the county mental health department. He was very dutiful in trying to get back to work on time after each robbery.

PIGS & BELONGING [Su, 7-6-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Pigs of an Old Man—PIGS & BELONGING [Su, 7-6-25]

 

The Gibson County Fair is July 6-12 this year. Fair time always reminds me of Sadie.

I was a Cub Scout in Indianapolis, but not for long, just a year or so before we moved to the farm near Oakland City, when I was ten. There were probably Cub Scouts in Oakland City, but we lived three miles outside of town, and didn’t have a car, so that was the end of my Scouting career. I like uniforms, and I missed wearing my Cub Scout beanie and neckerchief

However, the Forsythe Church community, where we lived, had 4H. No uniforms, but you could put that four-leaf-clover logo on anything you wanted. All you really needed for 4H was a pig.

At least, that’s what Uncle Ted thought, so he bought me a cute little Hampshire piglet. I named her Sadie, probably after Sadie Hawkins, of the Little Abner comic strip. Barbara Streisand had not yet sung, “Sadie, Sadie, married lady,” but if I had heard it, I would have sung, “Sadie, Sadie, you ain’t no lady.”

 

Sadie was the world’s least cooperative pig. She didn’t like being a pig at all. I borrowed Uncle Ted’s cane to direct her around the show ring at the Gibson County fair. Didn’t do a bit of good. She went anyplace she wanted. We didn’t get a blue ribbon. Or red. Or yellow. If they’d had a puce ribbon…I’m not sure they would have awarded even that to us.

It wasn’t just me or the fair judges. Sadie didn’t cooperate with anybody, including her own offspring. When it came time for them to be born, Sadie got her back end up against the barn side so they couldn’t come out. Daddy and I had to keep dragging her away from that wall.

 

Once born, she wanted nothing to do with them, including nursing. When she saw them coming, she would run away, down to the pond lot. They would chase her, going wee-wee-wee-wee, all the way. They’d catch up, and she’d spread her legs and brace herself so they couldn’t get at her. They’d all get on one side and push until their sheer numbers—about a dozen—would overcome her resistance. They’d all jump in and get some dinner and she would grunt and try to ignore them. Until the next time they wanted to eat. They the same scenario would play out.

In addition to Sadie, I also exhibited carrots at the fair. They looked like octopuses. They won a yellow ribbon, which was pretty much like a participation prize. I just didn’t have the right color thumb for being a farm boy, which I guess was blue, since that was the color ribbon the good 4H kids got.

I would have liked blue ribbons, but what I really cared about was being included. That was my blue ribbon—just being a part of things.

I related better to people than to pigs and vegetables. I was elected president of The Lucky 13 4H Club and quickly grew it out of its name. I liked being included so much that I wanted everybody else to be included, too. Any kid I saw, I invited them to join up.

That club won a lot of blue ribbons at the fair. None of them were mine. But that was okay. No blue ribbons. No uniform. But, I belonged. You don’t have to be able to control pigs or grow carrots to be included.

John Robert McFarland

PARTNER WITH THE WORLD [F, 7-4-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—PARTNER WITH THE WORLD [F, 7-4-25]

There are many different theories of how to deal with the imperfections of living in this world. We are told to bloom where you’re planted, or to make lemonade if life gives you lemons. Good approaches. Good skills.

Here’s a slightly different life skill: partnering with the world.

I’m thinking about that because it’s sweet corn time. That means Art Snider. I learned about world-partnering from Art’s sweet corn approach to life.

When Art retired, he decided to be a “truck gardener,” which sounds like growing trucks but is actually growing vegetables to take to farmers’ markets to sell out of the back of a truck. The problem was deer. There were a lot of them in the area where he lived, and they would eat all his produce as soon as it got almost ready for market. He thought about fencing, but it would take a lot of fence, which would eat into his profits, too, and create its own problems. So he planted a couple of rows of sweet corn all around his huge garden before he put in the other plants. The corn was up and ready for the deer by the time the other vegetables showed their heads. The deer were satisfied with the corn. They didn’t bother the other stuff.

That doesn’t work with the occasional rose bush. Shortly after our daughter, Katie, moved to Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, she planted a rose bush at the corner of her house. She went around the corner to get the watering hose. That took only a few seconds, but by the time she got back to the bush, a deer had run out of the woods—woods are everywhere in the UP, even in towns—and eaten her rose bush.

For the eight years that she and her family, and her parents, lived in Iron Mountain, we, like everyone else, had flowers only in hanging baskets on porches, where the deer could not get them.

Then Helen and I moved “…back home again, in Indiana.” No deer in a college town of 70,968, right? No, not right. Helen decided to get creative with her flowers. She put a pot of those pretty pink flowers--the ones for which I don’t know the name—outside our brick-walled patio so the neighbors could enjoy them, too. I hope the neighbors saw them quickly, for they were enjoyed almost immediately as a deer snack. So, Helen did not curse the deer. She understands. She brought the pot inside the patio. The flowers are pinkly blooming again.

Too often, if we don’t like the way life is, we just bulldoze it out of existence. We always pay a price for that, even if it is not immediately available. Far better to plant a row or two for the pests.

Life works best if we partner with the world.

John Robert McFarland

This being Independence Day, I think it especially meaningful that the lectionary Gospel for this Sunday, July 6, includes “I have given you authority…to overcome all the power of the enemy…” [Luke 10:19]

HARD WORK FOREVER [W, 7-2-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man--HARD WORK FOREVER [W, 7-2-25]

 

I was thirteen years old. Maybe twelve. Maybe fourteen. Hard to remember, through the haze of 75 years of memory. And through the sweat.

I had lost touch with the rest of the crew. The corn stalks were so tall, way above our heads. And so thick. Even if a fellow “corn jerker” was only two rows over, he was hard to see. [We detasseled the rows on either side of us, so the nearest other corn jerker was always two rows away.] [1]

It was slow work, walking through that long, long corn field of Princeton Farms, pulling the tassels out of the tops of the stalks. I had to reach as high as I could, bend the stalk over without breaking it to get it down to where I could grab the tassel and jerk it out.

It was uncomfortable work. There was no breeze down in amongst the corn stalks. They were wet with dew, and the humidity was always over a thousand percent, so we were drenched. We had to wear straw hats and long sleeves and pants, because the corn leaves were like knives.  

When I got to the end, everybody else was already there. The other guys didn’t worry if they missed a “few” tassels, or broke some. They were just in it for the quick money, fifty cents per hour. They made fun of me for doing the work the right way. Even the foreman was more interested in getting it done quick than in getting it done right, and was disgusted with me for slowing things down.

Yes, they were in it for the quick money, but I was in it for the slow money. Anyone who worked the entire detasseling season, from first day through the last, made an extra twenty-five cents per hour. That was a huge extra bonus. Only two of us got it.

More importantly, I was in it for the satisfaction. No, I didn’t like farm work. I had experience with it already. We lived on a farm where all the labor was manual. I knew all about being hot and sweaty and chigger-eaten and hen-pecked. But I liked the feeling of achievement, of beating the hard work at its own game.

Anne Lamott says that staying sober is “…hard work forever.” I think that is probably true of life in general. I think about that now in this late June-early July season of corn detasseling.

I still don’t like being miserable and uncomfortable, whatever the reason, any more than I did growing up on the farm, any more than I did down amongst those tall corn stalks. But I want to be able to say to myself, on my final day of life: You did it. You did the hard work, and you did it right.

Well, not just my final day. I want to be able to say that on any day.

But here’s the catch: the hardest work is remembering the satisfaction of hard work. Every day, sometimes every moment all day, I need a reminder. At any time, there is that temptation to take the easy way, to break the stalks, to leave some jerks unjerked, to hurry to the end of the row. 

When you are old, remembering the satisfaction of hard work...that is the real hard work…forever.

John Robert McFarland

 

1] I did not know then that detasselers were called cornjerkers. I came across that name when we moved to Hoopeston, IL and the high school teams were called Cornjerkers.