Days of Grace – The Good Men Project

Richard and I are on the couch watching a Congressional hearing about unidentified flying objects (UFOs).

In the hearing, two fighter pilots and a former Air Force intelligence official provide opening statements and then respond to questions. The gist of their testimony is that UFOs (now referred to as “unidentified aerial phenomena” or UAPs) are real. According to these men, American military personnel and commercial pilots have had numerous encounters with UAPs, backed up by radar evidence, photographs, and more.

Further, the former intelligence official states that the American government knows far more about UAPs than has been released to the public. There are even claims of recovered UAPs, non-human “biologics,” reverse engineering programs, and secrets known by the government that would cause “ontological shock” to civilians if revealed.

Could all of this UFO stuff be the beginning of more revelations and a slow roll-out of admissions about some kind of unknown intelligence in our midst?

Perhaps.

But that’s not what captured Richard’s attention. During a commercial break from the hearing, there was an unrelated news segment that included a silly image of a politician’s son.

And Richard turns to me and says, “It looks like he shaves his legs.”

I burst out laughing.

My wife and mother-in-law were sipping their glasses of wine in an adjacent room where they didn’t have to listen to all this “UFO nonsense.” But they overheard Richard’s comment and couldn’t help laughing.

There are big moments in life. Weddings, graduations, promotions and such. But the best of life is often found in these little moments.

Little moments with loved ones, when we are all together, laughing over something silly, or simply settling into a peaceful evening.

Little moments of grace.

Revealing our bare bones

One of the things I love about Richard is that he utters completely random thoughts and remarks. Sometimes they’re insightful, often they can be hysterical. But they’re always genuine.

“You really think he shaves his legs?” I asked Richard, and then we all started laughing again.

The levity was a welcome diversion. A brief respite from the sad event that brought my wife and me back to Scotts Valley, California.

The sad event was a memorial service for a dear friend who passed away just before Christmas. I was involved in some of the event planning and tasked to serve as the master of ceremony for a reception after the memorial.

Being back in the county where I spent twenty-six years of my law enforcement career always unearths mixed emotions. Old haunts and familiar locales bring fond memories, but they also remind me of how much life has changed.

I reunite here and there with old colleagues, noticing how much we’ve all aged. And the ghosts of friends in town who have passed away are never far removed from my perception.

There is a winter chill in the air, which seems to fit the atmosphere of my visit.

But it’s not so much a melancholic mood as a gentle acceptance of life’s advance. Of goodbyes, reunited old friends, fond memories, and walks down familiar streets to explore the changing landscape of one’s life.

We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again. — Katherine May, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times

Having arrived in town two days before the memorial service, I decided to venture into nearby Santa Cruz, California, to clear my mind, get some exercise walking, and shoot some street photography.

Santa Cruz is a street photographer’s dream, always buzzing with colorful characters and energetic buskers.

Plants and animals don’t fight the winter

When I arrived in downtown Santa Cruz, I visited my old friend Andrew, who owns a wonderful art store that I frequented for many years.

As luck would have it, Andrew was in his office.

We chatted and caught up on the lives of our children, family, and work. He spotted my rangefinder camera slung over my shoulder, and I told him I planned to do some street photography.

It was good to see Andrew.

We may not be able to go home again, but that doesn’t mean our visits can’t be filled with heartfelt reunions, warm memories, and gratitude for how far we’ve traveled in life.

I think the trick to navigating the winter of our lives is to not fight it.

To accept where we’ve been, where we are, and where we are headed. And to know that the crucibles of life always lead to change, some kind of advancement, and new destinations.

Animals understand this intuitively. Nature teaches us that we must simply roll with the changing seasons of our lives.

Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximising scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible. — Katherine May, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times

After visiting with Andrew I roamed the streets of Santa Cruz, where I soon encountered a young street musician and his loyal dog, named “Beethoven.”

 

Beethoven’s companion, a young street musician with purple hair, had a kind smile and easy countenance. But there was a sadness in his eyes. I sensed that life had been difficult for him. I offered to take a picture of the two of them, but he said, “That’s okay, I’d rather just see Beethoven on your Instagram.”

I continued my walk downtown and happened upon an old van completely painted over with murals, symbols, and sayings. The owner of the van, who was dressed in a colorful, psychedelic-type Renaissance Fair outfit, said to me, “Feel free to take a photo of the van.”

I pointed to the portrait on the side of the van and said, “Jimi Hendrix, right?” and the fellow said, “Exactly! Most people get it wrong and think he’s Bob Marley.”

“You’re quite the artist,” I said, adding, “How long did it take you to do all this?” The fellow, who introduced himself as “Blue,” seemed to come alive as he told me all about his artwork, the clothing he makes, and more.

It’s amazing what people will share if you simply show interest in them.

I asked Blue if I could take his photo, and he proudly stood while I clicked away. Then he showed me more artwork and clothing in his van.

Blue said that he’s a dishwasher and that he has designed acrylic clothing that doesn’t get wet when he’s washing dishes. I smiled to myself as we spoke and I shot photos.

This is the joy of street photography. The chance to escape life’s challenges, live in the moment and enjoy fascinating people and places.

I thanked Blue for his time, wished him luck with his art, and continued on my way.

Soon, I found myself outside Bookshop Santa Cruz, a favorite haunt of mine. Outside the bookshop, sitting on a pedestal, was the bronze sculpture of Tom Jefferson Scribner, playing a musical saw. The sculpture was created in 1978 by Marghe McMahon.

I wandered into Bookshop Santa Cruz, bought three new books, and realized it was getting late in the day. I had plans that evening to have dinner with some old colleagues.

The weather was overcast and brisk, but I was glad I came downtown. The people, sites, and fresh air lifted my spirits and made me feel grateful. Grateful to be back, despite the sadness of a funeral, to see old friends, familiar streets, and new discoveries.

Grateful for these days of grace.

Stop trying to finalize our comfort and security

That evening, before bed, I pulled Katherine May’s book, “Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times,”from my travel bag.

I’ve read the book in the past but brought it along on this trip. Maybe as a kind of encouragement, or to console my heart a little. Gazing at the pages beside a small bedside light I read the following:

In The Wisdom of Insecurity, Watts makes a case that always convinces me, but which I always seem to forget: that life is, by its very nature, uncontrollable. That we should stop trying to finalise our comfort and security, and instead find a radical acceptance of the endless, unpredictable change that is the very essence of this life. Our suffering, he says, comes from the fight we put up against this fundamental truth.

The church memorial for my dear friend was beautiful the next day.

The Irish priest, with his soothing brogue and kind words, reminded us all that we are forever growing and changing, along a path to our eternal future.

At the reception after the church service, I was first to greet the widow of my dear friend. I opened the car door as she stepped out, and gave her a warm hug. The reception that followed was packed with family, friends, and community members, all there to show their love for my late friend and his family.

We will all have seasons when the leaves fall from us.

Chapters in our lives of happiness, sadness, and everything in between. We cannot control life, we can only live it.

At the end of the day, my wife and I gathered our travel bags in the car and said goodbye to her mom and dad. Richard ambled out of his garage workshop, a place where he is most content working on small engines with his hands. We shared a quick smirk, perhaps both remembering that UFO video and the politician’s son with shaved legs.

A few hugs, and goodbyes, and we were on our way.

As I drove out of town, I looked one last time in the rearview mirror. At the landscape of my past, where so many good memories and friends live. And I felt a kind of pensive, somber gratitude.

Gratitude for the past. Gratitude for those I’ve loved and lost, and those who are still in my life. Enjoying downtown adventures, simple moments, and all that life has to offer.

Gratitude for these days of grace.

Before you go

I’m John P. Weiss. I write elegant stories and essays about life. If you enjoyed this piece, check out my free weekend newsletter, The Saturday Letters.

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This post was previously published on Medium.com.