Birthdays and Memories

[My dear friend Art Bohart wrote the following as a present for my 75^th birthday last week. I’m pleased to post it here as a counterpoint to the poem “Seventy-Five”, which I wrote and posted here earlier this week. -Robert]

 

Today

My friend is turning 75

And having a birthday party.

I remember when I turned 75.

I staged my 85^th birthday party

Just in case I didn’t live

Till 85. Robert and Diane came

To help me celebrate.

Sadly, I will not be there today

To help them celebrate.

 

This writing is about some of our times.

It is also about Time. Time,

The great haunter of life.

I think of Time like sheets of wind

Filled with rain. I do not know why.

Through the mist I see “shadows of the things

That once were.” They still are, deep in

My unconscious. I see Robert and Les

Coming up to tell me how much they

Liked my presentation at the Person-Centered Conference

In Leuven, way back in 1988.

Can I really see so far back?

I was 45. I was just (belatedly) starting

My academic career after my earlier one

Of turmoil and neurosis.

Their praise meant the world to me

And gave me the confidence to think

That I had something to say.

I am not sure I’d be where I am today

Without them.

 

Fast forward to 1996. Another shadow

Out of the mist appears.

I am sitting with Robert and Les.

Robert and Les are talking about their new book:

The formal birth of emotion-focused therapy,

A new direction in humanistic therapy,

Perhaps even a saving of humanistic therapy,

A savoring of humanistic therapy.

It is the only humanistic therapy that makes a

Major dent.

Even though I am a person-centered therapist,

It is the one I recommend to most students if

They want to practice as a humanistic therapist.

 

As the slide show through the mist progresses,  

Rome comes into view.

Robert is now a tour guide.

I, who am “public transport handicapped,”

Have planned no trips around Rome.

Robert, who is public-transport literate,

Rescues me. I tag along while he and Diane

Take us by bus and subway and bus

To the see the catacombs.

The next night we roam Rome by foot.

We see cathedrals and fountains and enjoy

A dinner together in the cool evening

After a day of hot sun.

That hot sun brings back the tortured memory

Of how we suffered together on a bus tour we took

In the blazing heat to the Colisseum and nearby ruins.

Diane had to sit down for awhile while I could barely stand.

It was so hot I cannot remember enjoying anything. Did we see where

Caesar is buried? If so, so what? By then I couldn’t care less.

 

Memories of a friend who enriched my experience

Painted into my memory

Coming now as time becomes precious.

I thank him for all the research that has enriched

My understanding of psychotherapy,

All the contributions he has made to methodology

Which helped me escape the strait jacket of positivism.

The development of a revolutionary form of humanistic therapy,

Which has expanded my consciousness of possibility,

The moments of friendship I and Karen have shared

With him and Diane.

If my life were a tapestry, hung somewhere in a

Mythical corridor of a mythical inner museum,

And it is, there would be all these experiences

Painted in, from the years 1989 to the present.

Like those old tapestries that told a story.

He has enriched my life story.

 

And now the show moves forward.

 

Time grows short. In some places hopes for the future grow dim.

The future looks darker.

Still, as we venture into the unknown

I am glad to have him and Diane as traveling companions.

 

Seventy-Five: Questions and Answers

 [I wrote this poem to mark my 75th birthday a couple of days ago. If you prefer, here is a link to a video of me reading it: https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/zxk8cfmeyhh6oehky9kl8/20250531_220555000_iOS.MOV?rlkey=ffbj59vwahqro27akepito3n9&dl=0] 

 

1  Memento Mori [Often translated as: "Remember you must die"]

 

I’ve already written so much about my life

And my manner of  dealing with my eventual death --

Ignore? Delay? Bargain? Face?  --

That as this milestone approached I thought

I’d nothing more to say… Wrong!

Death is eternal. It’s always with us.

 

Looking back, I see I’ve pulled a Jedi mind trick

On myself:

I’ve imagined my death, to get me to live:

To do good, to make a better world.

To touch and be touched by the lives of others,

To leave a legacy of inspiration and connection.

 

I’ve defined myself by this contest with death,

Racing through life to accomplish enough:

As if by running fast enough

I could outrun my end,

Make an end run,

Like going to warp-speed in Star Trek.

 

As if by being good enough:

Faithful, sinless, self-sacrificing,

I could out-saint my ceasing.

 

As if by believing hard enough:

in something else -- eternal life?,

God?, the Eschaton? Some Grand Simulation

Of all of us? – I could out-believe

My inevitable end.

 

But all of this now seems silly,

Vanity, and chasing after wind: 

As if the point was to make

An impressive performance,

To convince me and you.

 

 

2  Vita plena ["Full Life"]

 

Now, as I reach three-quarters of a century

I find this life-long strategy has broken down:

Oddly, I no longer feel so afraid

Of my own and others’ deaths.

This puzzles me:

Where has my lifetime of anxiety gone?

 

Am I now finally inured to my fear of death?

Have I rubbed it down to numbness,

Even worn it out? Has my fear of nothingness

Finally come to nothing? 

Am I even the same person that I was

When I first began my career of fear?

 

Perhaps it’s all that I’ve accomplished

In my own, one life: Articles, books,

Scouting the frontiers of psychotherapy research

The science-y fiction of imagining a new

Kind of therapy, new ways of helping,

Or better: old ways made new, returning

To the lasting ways of seeing, doing,

And being with each other.

 

Or perhaps it’s family: The amazing family

From which I’ve sprung; strong, stubborn,

Visionary, inspiring both me and others

To see farther, to craft better.

Treasuring my siblings, each exemplary

In their own way. Together, we’ve seen

Our parents through their dying, filling

These shared memories with meaning.

 

And the amazing family Diane and I

Have grown up with:

We growing ourselves as parents,

As our two sons grew themselves to adults,

And our grandchildren now grow themselves

Into young adults.

 

Truly it has been a life full of incident,

As if to say:

I wasn’t just sitting around, you know!

Maybe the specifics of what happened are not

As important now as they once seemed:

Who did what to whom, and why?

But I do know that it’s been a life full,

Rich and intense, like a fine glass

Of petite sirah wine.

 

 

 

3  Quid Nunc? ["What now?"]

 

All this now leaves me with more questions:

How will I keep myself motivated to work

So hard, if the stakes are not life or death?

 

As two new-old friends we saw yesterday

Asked us: What is next for you?

What is important for you now?

 

I think what they meant was:

How will you use your remaining time

Between now and your death?

And are those projects that have occupied you for so long:

The psychotherapy and research writing,

The organizational work

(Let Emotion-Focused Therapy thrive!),

The training and supervision, and yes, even

The bits of therapeutic work.  Do you

Really want to continue doing these things

Indefinitely, until you fall over?

 

I wasn’t happy with my answer then,

Nor am I satisfied now: A book project?

To develop my poetry? Science fiction?

Spending more time with our grandkids.

Protesting against autocracy.

All worthy goals but maybe not the point.

 

I told them: This is the very question

I’m struggling with in this poem:

I’m working on it!

And then our time ran out.

 

What I do know is that these are important questions,

Questions worth asking, even if good enough

Answers have not yet arrived, or possible.

 

So I sat and savored this conversation, rich

And intense, like a glass of petite sirah,

And the inkling of some answers came into focus:

 

 

4  Responsio ["Answer"]

 

If I’m honest, I’m sure what’s

Taken the sting from death is this:

A deep sense that we’re all connected,

Each to each, more deeply than we can ever say.

You live in me, and I live in you:

Past, present, future,

Quantumly entangled.

 

Difference, privilege, marginality, imposing

Our will on unwilling others:  All of these

Are vanity, and chasing after wind.

 

Instead, it’s kindness I seek.

The true JEDI mind trick

Is justice, equity, diversity and inclusion.

To look for greater connection to each other,

to make our shared joy more,

And the pain we cause less?

 

This is worth living for,

Even after three quarters of a century.

 

                

-Robert Elliott; Lodi, California; 31 May 2025 

 

 

Etymological Haibun for Deacon Tom

 [Note: There are many interesting, caring and compelling folks at St. John the Baptist Episcopal Church in Lodi, California. Tom Hampson has been deacon there since early 2020, and in many ways has made us feel welcome there and in the Central Valley more generally. Last Sunday the congregation there celebrated his time among us and marked his retirement. He has supported my poetic efforts and so it is appropriate that I mark his retirement with the following poem.]

 

Haibun is a Japanese literary form combining prose (often about a journey) and one or more haiku, in this case: 5½. The haiku are often shorter than standard (for example 12 syllables).

 

Word journey: If we listen, the deep roots of the English word “deacon” can tell us a lot about Tom Hampson, St. John’s deacon for the past five and a half years. The word deacon comes to us through Latin from the Koine Greek diakonos, originally meaning “servant”, used in the early church to refer to a “servant of the church”, specifically a person who assists the priest or does the Gospel reading. The Greek diakonos in turn comes from dia, meaning “thorough” or “from all sides” and konos, meaning “to endeavor or try”. Travelling back in time even further to about 5,000 years ago, we get to the source of konos: a Proto-Indo-European root *ken-, meaning “to set oneself in motion”. A little-used contemporary cognate in English is “conation,” a fancy word for will or motivation.

 

Haiku  1: (for animal lovers:)

Old shepherd leaves [4]

Flock: Lost? Sheep dog stays, (5)

Knows flock well [3]

 

Haiku  2 & 2½:

(theological, Gospel of John:)

Church servant tries [4]

To be everywhere: [5]

Feed my lambs [3]

 

            (alternate version:)

Church servant tries [4]

To be everywhere: [5]

Risks burn-out [3]

 

Double Haiku  3&4: (philosophy of action:)

Act of will [3]

Deacon connects Being [6]

And Doing [3]

 

Makes through-line, [3]

Anchors us through times [5]

of test and change [4]

 

Haiku  5: (good-bye:)

So much action [4]

And serving. Time to rest? [6]

Sheep are OK [4]

Dear Me

[Flash poem in response to prompt: Letter to Self, 26 April 2025:] 

Dear me!

What are you doing back here again,

After 50-plus years?

Do you think you can go back in time?

Is there something unfinished

From your last time here,

Something that needs fixing,

After such a life in between?

 

Is it that you fear

You might have become,

A dreary me?  A weary me,

Who longs to return

To their source?

Who hopes for a renewal, a restoration

Of the lost time: that lost self?

 

But don’t you know:

You have always been enough,

Then, so many years ago, 

At this college in the redwoods,

And, yes, even now.

 

-Robert Elliott

Crown College, UC Santa Cruz, class of 1972