Book Segment #8 - "Just Write."

November 12, 2005

Just write.

“Write the story. Write the story.”

This statement has been persisting in my head for the last month or so. It happens when I am walking the dogs, skipping across clouds at 35,000 feet, in conversations with Valerie, meetings with clients, praying. I want to believe that it’s God speaking to me; I also want to believe that there is an audible voice, one that speaks a bit more clearly than the whispering wind, the murmuring stream, or one of the many other ways they say God speaks to you. OK, I have to ask; can anyone tell me who “they” are? They sure get a lot of credit for knowing everything about anything for which no one else seems to have a definitive answer. Who are they?

“Write the story.”

The story is about my father, who died a little more than three years ago. It is about resolution, goodbyes, permission, anger, denial; the conflicts associated with being a man, a father, a husband, friend, business colleague, child of God. Is it about saving his life, significance, denial, burial, and discovering new life from death’s ashes. It is about weeping and shuddering when no one is watching. It is about fear and hope. It is about our condition.

I feel drawn to write this story now, while moving through this “perfect storm” of change. It’s sort of like the animals you hear about that run for cover, deep inland, days before a ravaging tsunami erases all land and life in its path. They know something threatening is approaching, and this inner instinct drives them to higher ground.

I am a 54 year-old man. Broken. Searching. Humbled. My life feels like a responsibility that is heavier than I think I can bear. And at the same time my soul lifts like warm balloons floating above the scents and sounds of summer picnics. I have come to faith. I am still coming to faith. I will not get there on my own.

Dad, your life and death still haunt me. I have tried with all my might through the years to run from becoming the man you were, to become the kind of man you feel that you failed to experience. The more I run, the more your presence imbues me. I recently looked in the mirror and saw you there as plain as day. It shook me. I grew a beard to hide you from me, but your image cleaves into me whenever our eyes meet. The more I stride to leave you behind, the more you possess me. Curse? Blessing? My call to fulfill your life?

Write the story.

The Scenes:

· “Just one game of catch, please?”

· The trip to visit the Alamo [in plaid madras shorts] when I was 12.

· The shower door and it’s teeth of glass.

· A traveling salesman... A traveling marketing man.

· You: a taxi driver. Me: a passenger.

· Meeting you coming the other way down the road.

· The suicide attempt.

· I saved your life.

· The last game of gin rummy in your hospital room.

· Saying goodbye - letting go in the hospital room. Giving you permission to go and be with God. A better place.

· The morning of the funeral. The chapel room with my son, John, viewing my father’s body. Cold skin. Eyes pasted shut. Still. Very still. One last kiss on your forehead.

· At my father’s grave site a few months after his death. Grass just beginning to cover the dirt. Temporary name tag, handwritten, Murray Kagan, October 20, 2001.

· At my father’s grave site a year after his death, the grass full and greenly manicured. Simple headstone.

· You saved my life.

Write the story.

“I have depression.” The mere sound of these words, even today, still sinks its rabid fangs into my flesh like a hungry black dog.

Jim says, “This is a major distinction from the statement, ‘I am depressed.’ Your father had a choice when he was struggling with his personal pain and demons. He chose not to confront them and partner with his depression; to accept its place in his life.” He paused to let this sink in, then continued. “It can be approached not any different than being told ‘You have diabetes’ after which you treat it accordingly. You adjust your life to manage it’s physical presence in your body It’s in your DNA…and as such you accept it. Treat it. Live with it. The distinction is that you ARE NOT diabetes, you HAVE diabetes. Your father chose a path that immobilized him, thus becoming his self-perception of failure, anger, remorse, weakness, humiliation, and defeat. You have the same set of choices. It’s your call. Choose.”

My response was immediate. “I do not choose depression to become me. I am ready to partner with it, to manage it and to live out the positive discoveries that will come as a result.”

Just write....