A stream of consciousness reflection for the Second Sunday in Advent
Or what happens when Cliff has time to reflect in solitude.
Several streams of thought have been flowing through me today: memories, honoring the past, waiting, and appreciating beauty. This is my attempt to sort them out.
Today would have been my father’s 86th birthday. He died when he was 71, having taught college students for 50 years and preaching (for even longer) who knows how many sermons (thousands probably) for hundereds of communities of faith across nearly every type of protestant denomoination.
I was 32 when he died, having spent much of the first 22 of those years in close contact with my dad. Being the youngest in our family (born when Dad was nearly 39) there was, culturally speaking, a generation gap between us. He, the youngest of the Great Depression era “Greatest Generation,” me, solidly GenX. I never felt it. Partly because those aren’t the kind of things you notice while growing up. Mostly because my dad always acted younger than he was. Always. Until mere weeks before dying.
I’m not like my dad in every way, but there are some ways in which we are nearly identical. If you know me (and happened to have also known my dad), you’ll know that we each have what I call a high nostalgia quotient. Our interior lives are rich with meaning. Sights, smells, tastes, breezes, lighting, tunes, objects, most things in fact, trigger some vague sense of connection to something just out of reach. Sometimes joyful, sometimes sorrowful, some just acknowledged. Most days, especially when I have the chance to slow down, waves of nostalgia carry me along through the day. Today is certainly one of those. I both enjoy it and get annoyed by it at times.
I’ve recently moved to a new place and new work. Which means everything is new. I’m meeting new people everyday. However, since this new place is also in a familiar category (university campus), I’ve noticed that in introducing myself and telling my story, I make reference to my father frequently.
“My parents were college professors.” “I grew up on a campus.” “Academia is my native habitat.” “I work in administration, but I witnessed ‘the struggle’ of faculty from the dinner table and the passenger seat.” “We can go anywhere you want for lunch. I owe my broad palate and openness to culinary adventure to my dad.” All of these I’ve said several times in the past month.
I’m not as consistently superlative in my expression of enjoyment of all things as he was. He uttered some variation on the phrase, “That’s the best/most beautiful __________ I’ve seen/tasted/enjoyed in a while,” on average several times a week. When (admiringly and lovingly) challenged on his use of this phrase, he’d reply that “a while” could be any length of time, therefore (as he also loved logic), he was telling the truth. Even if it was only 15 minutes, it had been ‘a while.’
Yesterday and today it’s been architecture that’s prompted my thoughts of Dad. I’ve spent the day exploring the physical spaces around me (also something I learned and shared with him). I’m appreciating how a well designed public space can actually spur creativity, community and reflection.
My current view (above) is one such place. A wonderful mashup of Italian style plaza, midcentury modern architecture, and Texas flora and fauna (not to mention brilliant sunshine, balmy breezes and 70º in December). You can’t really see them all, but there are 30 to 40 people within view.
I know not everyone likes midcentury modern. My new campus has received “ugly campus awards” from those who don’t appreciate its style. And to be fair, not all mid-mod design is of equal quality or beauty. Many midcentury buildings are plagued by double jeopardy: an unfortunate proclivity to be laced with asbestos combined with innovative design features that often outpaced the engineering and building technologies of their day. This often makes restoring or preserving them financially or practically impossible.
All that aside, the designers of this campus got it right on so many levels. Lots of public gathering spots, lots of nooks and crannies to sit and read or write or converse quietly. And at least to my eyes, interesting and beautiful lines, geometry, shadows and use of negative space.
To me this place proves that not all college campuses have to imitate East Coast, red brick, classical architecture to be beautiful and inspire creativity and learning. It also reinforces that there are some universalities about humans and designed spaces that need to be honored because they work.
This new place also presents some nostalgic challenges to me. I want all the people I know and love to share it with me. Especially, my wife and sons who happen to be more than 800 miles away (and had snow fall while I enjoyed a sunny walk yesterday). Each new discovery is attended by both the desire to share the moment and the recognition that it is my moment to have alone. A strange blend, both having a significant emotional, visceral affect in that moment. The same goes for seeing and hearing what they are doing while I’m away.
All of these thoughts are seasoned (as it were) by the nature of Advent. Waiting is the central theme, of course. Anticipation. Looking for the coming. It’s both joyful and infuriating to wait for something you know is going to be amazing, even if you don’t know exactly what ‘it’ is.
Then there’s the waiting that comes after something has passed. Perhaps it’s not technically speaking waiting, but to me there are similarities. The blend of emotions that comes from the nostalgia of reflecting back on something joyful and wishing you could bring it back or meet up with it again now, feels like waiting in some ways. It’s a missing. Longing. The desire for things to be different while at the same moment enjoying what is (or what was).
I miss my dad. I wish I could show him all the things I’m finding. I miss my wife and boys and make notes about what I will show them. I try to be mindful. Live in the moment and enjoy both it and the longing for what’s missing. Then I wait.
A few more of my moments this weekend…
