The Dedalus Log

 “A camera is a tool
for learning how to see
without a camera.”
(Dorothea Lange, photographer: 1895-1965)

“Okay, keep looking through the viewfinder. Focus on the building and pretend you’re shooting the facade. Yeah, that’s good; look professional and serious, like you really know what you’re doing. Now quick, drop the viewfinder and focus on her face. There! That’s it, I got her, now take another shot before she gets wise to the camera in her face. I wonder how that photo will look? Don’t look at the LCD screen now, dummy! She might get suspicious. Look at it later”.

Those were some of the thoughts racing through my head as I sauntered down Broxton Avenue taking pictures of people, buildings, and street scenes. Photographing people without their knowledge can be risky – even when taken in public areas where technically I have the right to photograph whatever I want. I suppose it’s like staring. Gazing steadily at a stranger’s face can be unnerving to the person you’re looking at, and it’s rude. My mom always told me not to stare. So, when I’m not feeling confident or brave enough to ask permission, I’m sneaky. I focus on one thing and then I quickly switch and snap a picture of the person I really wanted. It creates a sense of inner tension, and a heightened alertness to chance. I was positioning myself across the street from the domed Yamato’s Sushi’s Restaurant (in what used to be the old Bank of America building) on Westwood Boulevard when my cell phone began vibrating in my pocket. I fished it out quickly, assuming it was my brother Ed calling to check on our plans to meet for dinner that evening. Instead, I was momentarily confused by an unexpected, but familiar lilting voice on the receiver.
“Um, hi Tony, this is John.”
It took me a few seconds to erase the mental image of my brother and begin matching the voice to a new face.
“Oh, hi John!” I managed, realizing that it was Mary’s youngest son and my “traveling, who-has-yet-to-travel-with-me, companion” (see L.A. Union Station). “What’s up?”
“Um, ya know”, he continued hesitatively, “I was calling to see if you were open to a spontaneous trip today? If you’re available for doing something together?”
“Where are you calling from?” I answered, stalling for time to process the new data.  Perhaps knowing his geographic location might help explain this “bolt out of the clear blue sky” phone call and invitation.
“I’m in Santa Monica,” he began. “I was here to see my counselor about registering for classes and I got to thinking how we haven’t gotten around to actually visiting anywhere in Los Angeles yet”.
“Santa Monica!” I exclaimed, shocked by his proximity to my current location. “How funny! You won’t believe where I am right now? I’m in Westwood!”
“How eerie!” he laughed in response. “You’re just a few miles away!”
“So, what do you have in mind?” I laughed, shaking my head at the amazing coincidence, but more curious as to what prompted John to call.
“Well, this may sound weird, I know, but have you ever heard of Neil Gaiman?”
My laugh turned into a sputtering cough as I reacted to this “pie in the face” statement. “Did you say NEIL Gaiman – like the graphic novelist, Neil Gaiman?”
“Yeah, he’s the one. He wrote the comic series Sandman and the novel American Gods. Have you read his stuff?”
“Okay, John, now this is truly bizarre. I’m standing here in Westwood because my brother Eddie and I are going to hear him speak at Royce Hall tonight. I came early to walk around and take pictures. We’re supposed to meet later for dinner at Jerry’s Deli and then walk over to the hall. Is that what you’re calling about? Going to hear him speak tonight?”
“How strange!” John murmured in response. “Yeah, this is really weird, but that’s exactly why I was calling. I’ve never visited UCLA, so I thought we could walk around and then go to the performance later.”
“Whoa”, I added. “It’s like cosmic forces coming together. Why don’t you drive over to Westwood and we can figure out where to go and what to do about tickets”.
“Okay, where are you?” he asked.
“I’m standing next to Westwood Boulevard on Broxton and Kinross", I said, looking up at the signposts.  "Just drive up Wilshire and make a left on Westwood, I’ll be standing at the corner of Kinross and Westwood”.
“Got it!' he responded, 'I’ll be there in five minutes”.

Truthfully, I knew nothing about Neil Gaiman. Before receiving an email invitation from Eddie about 5 months ago, proposing to hear him speak at UCLA, I’d never heard of him. At Christmas my brothers Eddie and Alex told me that he wrote the Sandman comic series in the late1980’s, and I vaguely remembered them devouring those comics and praising the series as a breakthrough work in the new genre of graphic novels. I assumed he was a comic book artist until my son-in-law Joe (another fan) pointed out that Gaiman co-wrote the screenplays for the movie Beowulf, with Angelina Jolie, and Stardust, with Robert DeNiro, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Claire Danes. Despite my lack of knowledge I accepted Eddie’s invitation. If not for these seemingly random invitations by Eddie to movies, sporting events, or concerts, I wouldn’t see him except at one or two annual family events. Now as I waited for John at the corner of Kinross and Westwood, I began sensing that this day was growing more and more unusual - a day that had already begun with a number of odd synchronistic turns.

February 4 was supposed to be a routine Thursday. Our housekeeper comes on Thursday, so I usually leave the house early and go to a local bakery to read and eat a bagel with coffee. At 10 o’clock I drive over to a bookstore café where I write until about 3 or 4 o’clock. From there I usually go to the gym or go jogging. Originally, the Gaiman performance required only minor alterations. Instead of jogging or going to the gym, I’d drive over to Westwood and meet Eddie, his wife Tamsen, and our sister Gracie at Jerry’s Deli for a meal before walking to the event. The day was seemingly set – but then things started changing.

Oddly, it began when I left the novel I was reading at home. Instead I took two non-fiction books, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, by Anne Lamott, and Dorothea Lange: A Life Beyond Limits, by Linda Gordon. In a corner booth, I read two chapters in Lamott’s book, and the Introduction to Lange’s biography, but I highlighted three passages I found very interesting about writing, life, and perfectionism:

“E.L. Doctorow once said that ‘writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.’ You don’t have to see where you’re going; you don’t even have to see everything you pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you.” (Lamott: Bird by Bird)

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway. Perfectionism will only drive you mad. Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist’s true friends. What people somehow forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we are here.” (Lamott: Bird by Bird)

“(Dorothea Lange) would have agreed with her contemporary, Hungarian modernist photographer László Moholy-Nagy, who said he loved photography because it showed that nothing was as it seemed. This is what she meant by the slogan she so often repeated, ‘A camera is a tool for learning how to see without a camera’.” (Gordon: Dorothea Lange)

Reading those passages made me anxious to start writing. I’d stalled on my first attempt at writing a Valentine’s Day blog for Kathy, and was reluctant to resume. Luckily, two long forgotten scenes popped into my head while jogging one day and I thought I could start with them and see where they led. So I drove to the bookstore and wrote ceaselessly until 1 o’clock. After three hours of non-stop typing, I stopped. Nothing more was coming out. I stared at the document, checked my email, and surfed the internet, but there were no inspirations. I was stuck. It was only when I pulled the Dorothea Lange book from my backpack that I remembered the camera sitting in the trunk of my car. I’d grabbed my camera case as I was leaving the house, just in case I witnessed some momentous event or a scene that absolutely demanded recording. But those moments never seemed to occur, and if they did (like medi-vacs or walk-outs at school), taking pictures was the last thing I thought of doing. Seeing the photograph of Lange on the book jacket, sitting on the hood of a car, camera in hand, with the viewfinder pressed to her eye, made me consider what she was really doing. She was not waiting for historic events, spontaneous scenes, or prize-winning images to come to her; she was on the road, looking for the beauty, composition, and art in the seemingly ordinary objects and people that surrounded her. She was seeing beyond her eyes and using a camera to record it. I wondered if I could do that? Could I drive to Westwood, four hours ahead of schedule, and look for new and unusual scenes in the ordinary sights that surrounded me? 25 minutes later, I was standing on the sidewalks of Westwood with this new sense of mission – to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, and learn to see beyond my eyes.

Westwood is one of the most familiar places in the city for me. I’ve walked, cycled, and driven around its streets, sidewalks, and buildings hundreds of times in my life – as a UCLA student, graduate student, and adult. Mario’s Italian Restaurant was the location of my first “after-dance date” in high school. Westwood Florist was where I bought roses for my first serious college “crush”, and “the village” was where I wandered endlessly when I didn’t want to go home between, or after school classes. Looking at it with “fresh eyes” was challenging at first, until I stopped being self-conscious and didn’t worry about how “artistic” my shots were. Walking around with a camera strapped around your neck can be liberating. It’s amazing how invisible you become with a camera. You can stop in the middle of the sidewalk, stand still for long periods of time, and stare up and down at things (even people, for shorter periods). Pedestrians and passing motorists glance at you for a moment, dismissing you as a harmless tourist, location scout, or camera nut, and then ignore you. I was just getting into a groove of walking, stopping, and shooting, when John’s phone call broke through my revelry. Strangely, it didn’t alter my buoyant, impromptu mood  – but seemed to enhance it. I found myself smiling and shaking my head in amusement at this unlikeliest of coincidences. I was taking pictures of the storefront facades of Aahs and Urban Outfitters when John pulled up at the intersection, and I jumped into the car.
“So, tell me again,” I began, once I had fastened my seatbelt. “What got you to call me today?”
“Okay”, he agreed, “but first tell me where we’re going?”
“Oh yeah” I laughed. “Well, you mentioned you’ve never seen UCLA, would you like to see it now?”
“Sure, sounds great”, he replied.
“Then go straight up Westwood Boulevard. Drive as far as you can into the campus until you reach the front of the Student Union and we’ll park there”. I settled back into the seat and said, “So now then, how did this come about?”
John relaxed into the slow drive along Westwood and began the tale of a serendipitous day that began as normally as mine.

Before going to his counseling appointment at Santa Monica College, John had stopped by his mother’s house to check for mail. There he spotted a printed copy of my January blog on science fiction novels. He remembered receiving an earlier email notice, but hadn’t gotten around to reading it yet. He scanned the pages quickly, comparing my choice of favorite authors and science fiction novels against his own. We had often talked of the genre, recommending books to each other and offering opinion on them. His eldest brother James was also a fan, and he sometimes joined in on these conversations. After leaving with his mail, John drove on to Santa Monica to see about registering for classes. As he was leaving the counseling office, considering what to do next, his brother James called him by cellphone. They were both Neil Gaiman fans, and James had just learned that he was speaking at UCLA that evening. James couldn’t go himself, but he felt John should make an effort to catch this unique performance. John was at the point of dismissing James’ well-meaning advice, when he recalled my science fiction blog of that morning and our oft-postponed intention to go sightseeing around Los Angeles. On an impulsive whim, he called me to see if I would be interested in getting together, and possibly seeing Neil Gaiman.
“Wow” I exclaimed. “What a coincidence! But why isn’t James coming? If this was his idea, you’d think he would want to go?
“Yeah, that’s James for you,” he said with a chuckle. “No, he told me he was working late today and couldn’t get away, but that I should make an effort and go”.
“So tell me about Neil Gaiman. All I really know about him is that he wrote the Sandman comics. I thought he was an illustrator until my brothers straightened me out.”
“What?” he said in surprise. “Gaiman is more than an illustrator. He’s actually written more Sci-fi and fantasy novels than comics. The first one I read was Good Omens. He’s very good. But now it’s your turn to talk. What are you doing in Westwood so early?”
I gave him a thumbnail description of my morning and how I had traveled to Westwood to photograph the ordinary and mundane scenes around the village.
“I hadn’t thought about UCLA until you called”, I conceded, “but it will do as well as the village. So if you don’t mind my taking pictures while we walk around, I’ll show you the UCLA campus. There’ve been some changes since my post-graduate days, but it’s basically the same place”.

Since graduating from high school in 2001, John had been on a Homeric odyssey of jobs, situations, and relationships. He attended Loyola University of Chicago for two years, returned home, and began working as an assistant for an independent production company that specialized in reality television shows. Living at home for a while, and then in an apartment, he progressed through the company ranks, finally assuming a managerial position in the post-production phase of its operation. He was single and had no admitted romantic relationships.  Despite his constant employment, John seemed ambivalent about a profession and wasn’t interest in pursing a career in the entertainment industry. A few years ago, he resigned his position, claiming the work gave him no personal satisfaction, only to return after a six-month hiatus. At the end of this summer he again quit the business, telling friends and family members that he was thinking of re-enrolling in college. His call to me upon leaving the counselor at Santa Monica College seemed to indicate that he was following through with this plan.

It was only when I saw the steady stream of casually dressed, fresh-faced, young students making their way up and down Bruin Walk, that I realized the unique opportunity I had. While all the prior synchronistic occurrences seemed amazing enough, the fact that I was in John’s exclusive company was astounding. I had not had the chance to be in a sustained conversation with him in years. Oh, we had met and chatted on many previous occasions, but it was always in the company of someone else - his or my family, or with other friends. The last time I remembered having a long, one-on-one conversation with him was in 2001, the year he graduated from high school and we ran the Los Angeles Marathon together. That year we were together a lot, and we talked all the time; about running, training, high school, eagle scouts, college, and his plans for the future. Listening to him talk about the events of his day and the works of Neil Gaiman, while I sat in the passenger seat, also reminded me of the times I’d traveled with my own children on long car rides when they were in high school and college. Those were the rare occasions when they were helpless hostages to my queries and interrogations, and I could ask them any question that came to mind (or Kathy’s mind, had she been in the car with us). Something new would always be revealed after one of those long, intimate, conversations. On the paved walkway, adjacent to Ackerman Student Union, along the tree-lined path, festooned with colorful banners and sandwich billboards, I realized that this was one of those moments. I could fill in the blank spaces and vague periods of John’s life in one afternoon. I could ask him anything and wait out his answers.

“So, where are the hills of Westwood?” John began as we strolled up the path toward the library.
Answering that question seemed the best place to start our survey of the campus. UCLA is a big place, and it has changed over the years. When I enrolled in 1966, Westwood Boulevard actually extended all the way through the campus and connected with Sunset Boulevard in Brentwood. There were still vast tracts of empty land that had yet to be developed into medical buildings, athletic centers, and additional graduate schools and libraries. In my day a shuttle bus traveled along Westwood Boulevard, delivering students to the parking lots that covered the land from (what is now) Charles Young Drive to Le Conte Avenue, and then drove through the Village to Parking Lot C on Veteran Avenue. At that time, there was only an open courtyard between Ackerman Student Union and Pauley Pavilion, and a long paved walkway extending through the athletic fields toward the dormitories on the opposite hill. There was only one spot that provided a wide, panoramic view of the university, and the hills on which it rested. At the top of Janss Steps, on the western edge of the Central Quadrangle that contained Powell Library, Royce Hall, Haines Hall, and the Humanities Building, one could see the entire sweep of the campus, and get a sense of the vast acreage on which it laid. This is where I decided to begin my tour with John.

When I finished pointing out the landmarks and buildings from the landing at the top of Janss Steps, we were silent for a moment absorbing the vista and watching students slowly climbing the stairs. It was then that I asked John to model for me by going down the stairs and then walking up. I nervously explained that I preferred taking pictures of him instead of strangers. He looked at me strangely for a moment, laughed, and then shaking his head in amusement, did as I asked.  With John’s help, I captured the iconic image of a serious young student, lost in thought as he climbed the stairs going someplace, while casually holding an apple in his right hand, and the campus newspaper tucked under his left arm. I also sensed that John was in a cooperative and agreeable mood. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him that I didn’t know where to begin. I didn’t want to miss this opportunity, but I certainly didn’t want to appear too eager or nosy. I relaxed with John’s willingness to pose. I sensed I would know the appropriate time by simply allowing the flow of conversation and photography to find its own opportunities. I think my “camera of invisibility” also made me a benign listener, because John never stopped talking. He talked as if he were an early winter rain making up for a nine-year drought in one downpour.

We walked through the portico of Royce Hall, turned left at Haines into the student piazza between Rolfe and Campbell Halls. When the conversation slowed, I simply mentioned a complementing subject or asked him a clarifying question while taking pictures, and John resumed the pace. Keeping the backbeat of this verbal jam session with my camera, we improvised a curious conversational tune as we sauntered through the breezeway of towering Bunche Hall, and entered the Fine and Performing Arts section of campus. It was there I experienced the first of many insights from John’s “solos”. He was not describing the person I thought he was!
“You know, John,” I said, aiming my camera at the waffle-shaped façade of the building. “The way you’re describing yourself and your actions doesn’t fit with the person I thought you were in high school. I thought you were this well-organized, self-motivated, high achieving, super-student and athlete who had his life and future all planned out. You knew who you were and where you were going. You were becoming an eagle scout, passing your AP classes, going to Loyola University in Chicago, and majoring in Sports Medicine.”
John gave me a puzzled look. “Yeah,” he laughed softly as we continued walking. “That’s what a lot of people thought. I just let them think it”.

Later, while strolling through the Sculpture Garden, I brought up his early college days at Loyola, the classes he took, and the friends he made in Chicago. Again, I was struck not so much by his answers, but rather how they clashed with the convenient hypotheses I had created for myself.
“So, wait a minute,” I said, pausing in front of the free-standing, bronze figure called The Walking Man. “Then there was no one, single event, or person that caused you to leave school? Flunking a class or breaking up with a girl; that didn’t make you decide to give up and leave school? No one factor that sent you over the edge into a funk from which you’re still trying to recover?”
“Nothing like that happened,” he said, raising his eyebrows under his mop of hair and smiling. “I just didn’t know what I wanted to do, and nothing interested me”.
While skirting the eastern boundaries of campus, near the Law School and Murphy Hall, John began describing his latest departure from the television production company and how he was surviving financially. Evidently things had come to the point that he needed to take a sales job at a local department store over the holiday.
“I thought you took that Christmas job because school had not started and you were bored?”
He looked at me quizzically before answering. “I took the job because I needed the money”.

After walking, talking, and taking photos for another hour, I paused at the Inverted Fountain, next to Kinsey Pavilion, to observe a curious scene. We had walked into the middle of a quiz session with two groups of students working on their engineering assignment with a female teaching assistant. One group worked independently and seemed fine, while the other was getting some harsh looks and critical questioning from the TA. John stood off to the side as I circled the fountain taking pictures of the students from different angles and perspectives. The break gave me a chance to assess the afternoon. I felt tired, thirsty, and a little deflated. The intermittent conversation squeezed between photography, sightseeing, and walking, hadn’t gone quite as I’d expected.
“I don’t think the TA is very pleased with the boy in the sweatshirt,” I said walking up to John.
“Yeah,” he agreed, looking past my shoulder at the students grouped around the TA. “It looks like he’s having a bad day”.
“Would you like something to drink? We’re close to the Student Union. We can check on tickets there and find a place to sit and have a soda or something. What do you say?”
“Sure,” he replied, as we moved away from the fountain.

We walked along Portola Place to the rear of Kerckhoff Hall and then crossed the bridge walkway to the Student Union. We walked down two levels to the ground floor and I led John into a spacious dining area, filled with 2 or 3 franchised food outlets. We ordered sodas and then went outside into a patio balcony where we sat to rest and finish our drinks. I needed to review the day’s events, and make sense out of the day's conversation.
“This is great,” I said, sitting back in my chair, but keeping my camera on the table in front of me in case I wanted to take more pictures. “I used to come here to have a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and to read or talk to friends. I have great memories here. Anyway, there were a couple of things you talked about that I’d like to mention. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” John replied with a smile. “Go ahead”.
“Well, first of all, this afternoon has been very illuminating. I learned a lot about you, but also something about me. It appears that over the last nine years, I’ve been constructing all these elaborate characterizations of you, and rationalizations of your actions, that were of my own invention, because they weren’t based on your views or the facts.”
“Don’t feel bad, Tony,” John interjected. “You’re in good company”.
“Anyway, today I had the chance to just listen and ask questions. So let me stay clear of my opinions and mention two things I heard you say – your description of needing to have a plan for the future and your concept of perfection”.
“Okay” John replied, and he leaned back in his chair.
For the next few minutes I gave my take on what I heard John say. He described himself as a restless spirit, feeling that he was at crucial moment in time where something needed to happen. He needed to make a move in some direction, college, the military, or work - but he wasn’t sure which. Or he simply waited for unfolding events to dictate his responses. So far, he had mastered the skills necessary for television production work, but it wasn’t challenging or exciting, nor did it provide a creative outlet for his abilities. His sense of personal satisfaction came from the successful completion of a complex project, in which he coordinated and successfully orchestrated all the people and contending elements so that they worked and fit together. He envisioned that there was one perfect strategy or maneuver that would apply in all situations, and if he could learn and master it, everything would fall into place. This principle also seemed to influence his perception of the future, in that he felt the need to develop a master plan to direct his future actions. It was all pretty overwhelming and many days he just did nothing.
“Yeah,” John nodded. “Most of that is right”.
“Well, I wish I could help you John, but I don’t know what you should do. So far all my ideas about your life have been wrong, so I’m the last person you want to hear from. But a couple of things with your ideas of Master Plans and Perfection bother me. I’d love to do things perfectly too. In fact, I think in many ways I strived for that most of my life as a principal, husband, and father. I never reached perfection, but along the way I learned a lot, made plenty of mistakes, and just kept trying. I don’t know what would have happened if I’d done something “perfectly”? What’s left after achieving perfection? You die, I suppose. I don’t think perfection is possible, only the striving is real, and that’s what makes life interesting; it’s what drives us to learn and practice.
“Well maybe I didn’t mean perfection like that?” John interjected.
“Wait,” I interrupted quickly, not wishing to lose my stream of thought. “Just hear me out, because I think this idea of perfection and having a Master Plan is connected. Having a plan is a good thing, and I think you need one, but it’s not the solution to your problem. I agree with you that people need a plan to achieve their goal or objectives in life, but a plan, in and of itself, isn’t the answer. You have to start with a goal of some kind – temporary or permanent. It may not be the right goal, the best goal, or your final goal, but you need one to build a plan around. You’re describing your search for “the right plan”, and the wish to implement it “perfectly”. I think you’re minimizing your abilities and the actions you’ve already taken. You’re good at your job. You may not enjoy it, but you have the organizational and interpersonal skills and talents that your bosses value and need, especially since they keep bringing you back and allowing you to adjust your schedule for school. You’re taking active steps in registering and enrolling for classes. You’re training for the marathon this spring. You’re looking critically at your life and actions and evaluating them. You’re open to a variety of personal, career, and spiritual opportunities and influences. These are good things and they are the first steps in formulating a goal that may not be visible yet. Give yourself a break and just take it one step at a time.”

That was the extent of my advice to John. I wish I had said more, but I couldn’t think of anything wise to say. Instead I listened to John and asked more questions about his experiences with John Eldredge and the Wild at Heart seminar he attended in Colorado last month. We left UCLA as the shadows were lengthening across the playing fields and parked in Westwood with enough time to walk around the village taking photos until twilight. We met up with the rest of our party at Jerry’s for dinner, and then walked back to the campus to meet my son-in-law Joe, for the 8 o’clock Neil Gaiman performance at Royce Hall.

I was delighted by the tone and substance of Gaiman’s talk. Honestly, it would have been difficult not liking it, since I had no preconceived notions about him or his work, and the day had gone so well - but one never knows. Minimally, I was hoping for an entertaining evening with an insight or two about the art of writing. I wasn’t disappointed. Neil Gaiman proved to be a clever and soft-spoken young man, with a self-deprecating sense of humor and a trace of an English accent – just the sort of man I could imagine telling ghost and fairy stories to his young son and daughter. He spoke for about 90 minutes, readings some of his shorter works, telling us the back-story of some of his books, and describing his writing process. I came away with two clear lessons about writing (and possibly life). Gaiman evolved as a writer at his own pace and in his own style without following a timeline or plan, and by constantly changing genres. He wrote all sorts of things - graphic novels, short stories, children’s books, poems, science fiction novels, screenplays, and non-fiction works. In describing the writing of The Graveyard Book, a story of an orphaned boy raised by the ghosts in a cemetery, he mentioned that it took him over five years to finish. Each year he would take out the manuscript, dust it off and read it again, and then put it away, “until he was a better a writer and could tell the story the right way”. He repeated this ritual 5 times until he realized that he wasn’t going to get any better as a writer and that the story would have to tell itself. He finally published the book in 2008.

On the drive home I was struck by the thought that the day had come to its own conclusion, and I was only a participant. I had been on a thrilling roller coaster ride that started out as a carefully detailed plan and ended up as a magical experience. But I was a little disappointed in myself. I thought I should have been more helpful to John at UCLA. The lyrics from James Taylor’s Fire and Rain, kept going through my head -“Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground”. That’s how I felt after my talk with John. I had assumed correctly that he was at a critical moment in his life and wished to talk about it, but I had miscalculated in believing that I already had a grasp of who he was and the influences and forces which had been directing him these last nine years. None of my characterizations or cause-and-effect theories about John was valid. Worse, I didn’t feel I’d given him any meaningful advice. Had I been a wiser man, I would have pointed out the endless clues and signposts that I now realized littered our day together, and given him a clearer path to follow on his journey. I could have connected the ideas of Anne Lamott, Dorothea Lange, and Neil Gaiman to the situations John was describing in his life and pointed him in the right direction. Instead, all I did was listen, see objects through my camera, and take pictures. The one image that came into clear focus from my time with John was a picture of a young man living the journey (and the prayer) of St. Augustine, “you have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you”. All I could do was wish him well, and be available for the next time he called - or I called him.

If you are interested in the complete photo album of our day in Westwood and UCLA check my Flickr account:  2010-02-04 UCLA, Westwood.

“Life is suffering”.
(The First Noble Truth of Buddhism)

“You are the light of the world. A city seated on a mountain cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but upon a candlestick, that it may shine to all that are in the house. So let your light shine before men…”
(Matthew 5:13-16)

So let your light so shine before men
Let your light so shine
So that they might know some kindness again
We all need help to feel fine (let's have some wine!)
(Lyrics from Godspell, “Light Of The World”)

I remember the story going something like this:

It was a late Friday afternoon, with the sun setting quickly on the horizon. Martha, an attractive, silver-haired woman felt a sudden chillness in the air as she slowed her car and brought it to a complete stop. She hadn’t notice the approaching gloom of twilight while traveling swiftly along the interstate highway. Now that her forward momentum had stopped, she finally took note of the fading light of day. Row after row of cars, with glowing brake lights, were stacking up along the lanes, and behind her. No one was moving.
“It must be an accident”, she thought, “to bring all traffic to such a halt. I wonder what happened.”
She punched the car radio buttons, hoping to catch some word of the trouble on the freeway, but nothing was forthcoming from the 24 hour news stations. She took a deep breath, and settled back into her seat. There was no hurry getting home tonight. She had purposely stayed late at school to get ahead of the grades and lesson plans that were due the following week. Her son, Jonathan, had already told her that he would be working late, and not to wait dinner for him. She turned the car radio and the motor off. There was no point burning gas and depleting the battery. Other drivers were doing the same, and soon the freeway became eerily silent. Leaning back in her seat, Martha closed her eyes for a minute, then reached over to the adjoining seat for a prayer book she had tossed there when putting away her briefcase. Multi-colored tags flagged various sections of the book, indicating the prayers and readings she favored, and those planned for her classes next week. Taking up the worn, leather-bound Book of Common Prayer, she found the page she wanted and read the Evening Prayer, from the Daily Office. There was just enough light.
“Let my prayer be set forth in thy sight as the incense, and let the lifting up of my hands be an evening sacrifice,” she began. (Psalm 141:2)

She had only gotten to the second page of the rite when she heard the wail of the approaching fire trucks and solitary ambulance. Luckily, this stretch of the freeway had a center dividing lane, which allowed the emergency vehicles to pass quickly and then disappear among the cars ahead. Martha whispered a silent prayer of aid for the rescuers and the people they were helping. It was getting too dark to read without light, and she put down the book. She felt suddenly trapped and powerless, knowing nothing about the accident, the extent of the damage, or how long she would be stranded here. A sudden thought caused her to reach out and open the glove compartment to see if it was still there. Yes, there it was; a child’s, plastic rosary. Jon had placed it in the glove compartment many years ago, after reading that Mother Teresa said the rosary during long cars trips. He never used it, but the beads remained in the car in case he changed his mind. Needing a distraction, and something constructive to do, Martha took out the white, fluorescent rosary, closed her eyes, and fell into the long remembered pattern of prayers.
“In the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen” she began, making the sign of the cross with the crucifix. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ His only Son…”

The sudden rumble of car engines being ignited shook her out of the meditative state. She hurriedly finished the Hail Mary she was reciting, and reorganized her thoughts: rosary back in the glove compartment, strap the seat belt, start the motor, look ahead at the road and shift gears. All the drivers around her vehicle seemed to emanate a compelling urgency to get moving. Martha felt a fleeting nostalgia for the 20 or 30 minutes of prayer she had stolen during this experience. The gridlock in front of her melted away quickly, and she focused all of her attention on the drive home.

Six months later, on a Sunday afternoon, Martha answered the telephone at home. A woman’s voice said:
“Hello, my name is Anne Hathaway. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I’m trying to locate someone. Does the owner of a vehicle with the license plate letters C-H-U-Z-E live at this number?”
“Why yes”, Martha replied, momentarily confused by the odd greeting and question. Sensing no ill will in the woman’s softly, hesitant voice or manner, she found herself curious and wanting to help. “That’s part of my license plate, CHUZE LIFE”.
“Oh my God” exclaimed the woman, on the other end of the telephone connection, “I’ve found you!”
For the next 30 minutes, the stranger recounted her story and the reason she had been searching for Martha.

Six months before, she was involved in a near fatal car accident on the 118 Freeway. She had no memories of the accident or the sequence of events that led to it. The only thing she remembered was a sensation of physically floating up and away from her car, and the scattered auto parts and debris around it. It was dark; so dark that she soon lost sight of her car. A choking fear rose up in her as she realized that the fading freeway was the only anchor to reality in the darkness that was engulfing her. Then she saw the light. It looked like the arc lights of her youth, the beams that once shot into the night sky, announcing the premiere of blockbuster movies or the grand opening of huge department stores. Only this was a single, solitary pillar of light shooting into the sullen blackness. She struggled towards that beam with the desperation of a fatigued swimmer, reaching for a lone buoy, in the vastness of a stormy sea. When she arrived at the beacon of light, she followed it down to its source on the freeway. The light was coming from a solitary car, and the only thing she saw was a license plate with the letters C-H-U-Z-E. It was then that she heard a voice in her head say “It is not your time”, and she lost consciousness. They told her later that she was in a coma for two weeks. She spent 2 more months in the hospital recovering and recuperating. The only thing she remembered from the accident was the license plate and the overwhelming certainty that the pillar of light had been her only tether to life. This conviction was so compelling that her family and friends finally surrendered to her pleas for assistance, and they supported her quest to locate the car in her vision. Through a circuitous connection with a former FBI agent and a director of a local Department of Motor Vehicles, she was able to find Martha.
“I just want to say thank you” she said at the conclusion of her tale, “for showing me the way home”.
“That is an amazing story”, Martha said. “I remember the accident on the 118, but not the light”.
“That’s okay”, the stranger said gently. “I didn’t expect you to understand. I just wanted to say Thank You. You see, I believe you were the light guiding me home. You are the beacon of light in the darkness”.

I heard that story on Leap Day, February 29, 2008, at the Los Angeles Religious Education Congress in Anaheim, California. My first instinct was to scoff and dismiss it as just one more tale of a near death experience - but something stopped me. The context of this story gave me pause, and a personal association helped me make a connection that gave it relevance.

I was sitting in a large meeting room in the Convention Center, listening to Paula D’Arcy , a Catholic psychoanalyst and spiritual director, speaking on “The Heaven before us”. The guiding principle of the talk came from Natalie Goldberg’s belief, that writing is hard and dangerous, but the writer must leap into the act of creation without thought or hesitation. Likewise, D’Arcy believed that Life is hard and dangerous, and fraught with perils, but one still needs to participate and ACT in it, to see and experience Heaven (or The Kingdom of God) on Earth. She gave “10 Rules of the Road” to navigate this dangerous life (which can be Heaven on Earth). What most affected me was her story of the car accident and the light. She mentioned it while elaborating on Rule Number 1: Very few things REALLY matter; and we need to know the difference between what Urgent is, and what is simply important. This may sound simple, but it is hard to know the difference. Fortunately, D’Arcy added, there are people in our lives, and in the world, who can help us in our discernment, if we recognize them, and allow them to help. It was her contention that these individuals are generators of illumination, clarity, and hope. People who seem to broadcast a tangible energy we cannot perceive with our optical senses. They are beacons of light and positive power. The account of Martha, her prayers, and the light she emitted was meant to illustrate this point. However, just as I was ready to dismiss this fanciful New Age notion, I thought of Mary Killmond. I do not know a person who has dealt with more sorrows and the painful vagaries of life than Mary. Yet, she is one of the friendliest, most fearless, and caring women I have ever met. I consider myself lucky to know her, and blessed to have her as a friend. She could easily have been the Martha in the story.

I was first introduced to Mary as my son’s 5^th grade Math teacher. She was the only elementary school teacher who kept his attention and seriously challenged him in Math. She accomplished this task, not by charm or demonstrating mathematical superiority, but by intuitively stimulating his curiosity and unique talents to solve problems - all types of problems. She had also just suffered the loss of her son in an auto accident. I learned more about her engaging teaching styles from my wife, Kathleen, who was the 8^th grade teacher at the same school. They became well acquainted while working on two co-teaching projects one year, a rainforest unit in Science, and a reenactment of the Stations of the Cross . I managed to watch this dramatization of the passion of Christ on Holy Thursday, in 1991. It involved 30 students narrating and acting out the 14 tableaux of this devotional Catholic ritual. There was something so innocent and faithful in the children’s depiction of Christ’s sacrifice and death, that I experienced a new clarity of His redemptive message of love and forgiveness. I never forgot it. Kathy and Mary forged a remarkable friendship. They were teachers, colleagues, and mothers, with similar backgrounds, interests, and acquaintances (they both attended Mount St. Mary’s College, and knew many of the same priests and nuns); and over time, becoming something akin to sisters.

To be honest, in the early stages of our relationship, I found Mary a little difficult to appreciate. She was so passionate and energetic in her convictions, that her thoughts sometimes got ahead of her words and I’d lose her. Too often in those days, I only pretended to listen. I came to know Mary best through her husband, Frank Killmond. He was very easy going, reasonable, and funny. He had a wry sense of humor and a twinkle in his eye that captivated me from first meeting. He also gave off some Hollywood glamour as a working character actor, with an ongoing role in a T.V. Soap Opera. Frank had incredible patience, and the ability to listen to Mary and connect the dots of her non-linear meanderings and explanations. He was the perfect lens through which to see Mary, and understand her logic and enthusiasm. His love for her, made her real to me. They were the parents of a large family of eight, 4 girls and 3 remaining boys. However, by the time we came to know Mary and Frank, they were down to their last three children at home, Virginia in high school, and Eddie and John in grade school. In those early years, I kept myself detached, and a bit aloof from this raucous family of brothers, sisters, teachers, soldiers, merchants, actors, film and media developers, and students. I let Kathy be the primary emotional connection and conduit. I rationalized that they were primarily Kathy’s friends.  She and Mary would go on retreats, conferences, and vacations together, sometimes taking the younger boys (Eddie and John) along with our own children, Prisa and Tonito. This comfortable balance was best typified by occasional Friday get-togethers. Mary and Frank, accompanied by Eddie and John, would come over on a Friday, for a casual dinner of pizza, hamburgers, or hot dogs (depending on whim or convenience). We would talk, laugh, and discuss the educational progress, maturing, and juvenile antics of our children.  One evening Frank was talking about an annoying cyst on his neck -- and nine months later he was dead of cancer. It was as unexpected and incomprehensible as if he had gone up the street to buy a bag of charcoal briquettes for the barbeque and never returned. We were all left with a void of incompleteness that never filled in the months and years that followed his departure.

As I watched Mary dealing with Frank’s illness, his prognosis, and his treatments, I could not fathom how she managed to breathe, eat, teach, raise her boys, and continue living. Her son’s death had been a sudden, 3 A.M. wakeup visit by police officers announcing his fatal car accident, but now she was cast in, what seemed to me, a slow-motion, shadow-play of death, that would inexorably extinguish a life too soon. At first, I ascribed her resiliency to a mother’s inertia of always moving forward, toward necessary, short-term goals: getting grades done, planning dinner, picking up John, driving Frank to the doctor, praying, and writing in her journal. It wasn’t until one Friday evening, accompanied only by Eddie and John (because Frank was investigating a cure in Mexico), that Mary’s light finally penetrated my denseness. She had escaped the family room filled with children, pizza, and laughter to recover a forgotten item from her purse in the living room. When she did not return, I peeked in to investigate. There she was, standing alone, in a sliver of light in the semi-darkened room. Slump-shouldered and forlorn, Mary looked tired and defeated. I felt compelled to walk up to her, place my hand on her shoulder, and ask, “Mary, are you all right?”
She looked up at me with the sad smile and asked, “Will you hug me, Tony?”
“Sure” I replied, matter-of-factly, cradling her in my arms. She gave my back a momentary squeeze of appreciation, then pushed her face into my chest, and smothered a series of muted cries into my sweater. I held her in confused silence, trying to ride out the rhythm of her sobs and her tears. The force of so much pent-up emotion exploding outward stunned me, but I just held her. I could think of no more practical action. Eventually, Kathy, searching to find where we had gone, found us in the living room. Raising my brows and shooting her a look of panic, I caught her silent attention.
“I don’t know what is happening; and I don’t know what I’m doing!” I telepathically shouted, in a wide-eyed plea for help.
Kathy simply nodded and motioned for me to continue holding and rocking Mary. Without a sound, she carefully retraced her steps behind Mary, and left the room. She stayed just out of sight down the hallway, making sure that the children did not wander in and find us. After an eternity of tears, Mary’s sobbing breaths became quieter and more regular.
“Thank you for holding me”, she said, after expending a long breath. “You are so solid and healthy, that it reminded me of how Frank used to feel. I couldn’t hold it in. I’m sorry for being such a baby. You don’t have to keep holding me”.
“That’s alright Mary”, I replied, not letting go. “I don’t mind. I’ll hold you as long as you want”.

In the days that followed, Mary’s hug became a blinding epiphany for me. I had always been wary of getting involved in the emotional maelstrom I imagined would descend on Mary’s family as Frank’s condition worsened. However, that hug was the only request Mary ever made of me. She and her children never placed an emotional obligation or burden on anyone. They lived with Frank’s illness and dying with such grace and courage that I was shamed by my baseless apprehensions of being inconvenienced and put-upon. My own bitter tears came when I finally recounted the experience to Kathy, and realized how selfish and miserly I had been. Who helped whom with that hug? I’ve come to believe that Mary gave me a priceless gift that night. She let me see her private veil of tears as she stuggled in her roles of mother, wife, and teacher. After that evening, all my subsequent actions and responses to Mary, Frank, and their children, were honest and freely given. I grew to love them.

D’Arcy’s story struck a chord with me on Leap Day, and her “Rules of the Road” made sense. Life is dangerous, and it is filled with suffering, but it can be a wondrous adventure and a glorious experience, if we have the eyes to see it. We also can’t navigate this difficult journey through life alone; we need help, guidance, and love. I really believe that there are selfless and courageous people who are generators of illumination, clarity, and hope, and they give off a light that we cannot see within our spectrum of vision. I know such people. Mary is my immediate candidate, but I have others: Kathy, Prisa, Sister Marilyn, Magda, Kandy, Marty, Jim Clem…. People who seem to glow if you turn off the light; people I can find in the darkness and loneliness of my fears and despair; people who can always guide me toward the light.