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IN BETWEEN

"You know what the happiest animal in the world is? It's a goldfish. It's got a 10 second memory. Be a goldfish." --Ted Lasso.

Hopefully you're familiar with Ted Lasso and his fish out of water story. Ted is a coach of an English football (soccer) team. He knows very little about the game but has an uncanny insight into people and a morsel of folksy wisdom for every occasion.

One of his best players has had a bad game and he's let it get to him. Ted gives him the goldfish fact in order to help him see that it's possible to move on. Stuck? Be a goldfish.

In another episode of Ted Lasso, they diagnose one of their players as having The Yips. I suspected that The Yips is a real thing and apparently it is. I should consult with my daughter-in-law, Dr. Brooke Fuller, a "mental performance consultant" on the matter. But that doesn't seem fair. She'a pro. I shouldn't be asking for free advice.

According to Psychology Today magazine: "The yips refer to psycho-neuromuscular impediment interfering with the execution of fine motor skills during sport.

"One of the saddest and strangest phenomena in professional sports is when an athlete starts experiencing the yips. The ability of our best athletes to perform under high levels of stress is a major determinant in attaining the highest level of sport and competition.

"One famous example of the yips involved Steve Sax who went from being named National League Player of the Year in the 1982 season to not being able to throw the ball to first base on routine plays during the next season. Fortunately, he overcame this affliction, but not all pro athletes are so fortunate."

I've actually witnessed Brooke working through an exercise with a young athlete--her niece, Nora, the gynmast. It was in the moments leading up to Nora's first big meet. She was riding to the meet with me and her Mimi (aka: My Amazing Missus). She was getting pretty anxious. She recalled a practice session when she had an incident on the bars. "Be a goldfish", I counseled. That didn't help. Let's call Aunt Brooke.

I won't go into the details of the conversation they had but it worked. Nora went on to win best overall in that meet and every other meet she entered during the season.

"Getting in one's own head" is a trip I've taken many times. You would think I knew it well, but it's sometimes dark there and fluid; so I don't know what I might find around the next corner or under the next rock--the overthinking and obsessive analyzing of situations, which leads to more overthinking and frustration. The advice for getting out of one's own head: focus on the present moment and engage in activities that ground you, such as mindfulness or talking to others. So this essay is me being mindful and communicating it by casting these words out into the ether.

I'm reading a book by David Brooks called, "How To Know A Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen." [note: If next time we meet I seem a little strange, I'm just trying to see you deeply.] Brooks suggests some questions we might discuss with one another and ourselves. Maybe, I thought, that by working through these questions, I might be more goldfish-like and therefore able to courageously navigate these senior years. Who knows, there may be others out there in their own head, or their wilderness, their in-between. In case you would like to try, here are the questions:

What crossroads are you at?

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

If you died tonight, what would you regret not doing?

If we meet a year from now, what will we be celebrating?

If the next five years is a chapter in your life, what is that chapter about?

Can you be yourself where you are and still fit in?

If someone asked me these questions I would reply, "Those are great questions. I'll get back to you with my answers." I would never get back because these questions are too big. I've been pondering them for weeks and still haven't settled on a definitive answer for a single one of them. Heck, I struggle when someone asks me: "Sup?" or "How's it going?" or "How are you?" My honest answer to each of these three is: I'm just not sure. Not to worry though: I like a bit of mystery and suspense.

Being in-between doesn't have to be purgatory--the kind of place where, in the dark, you might bump into depression, despondencey, or despair. It might (metaphorically) be that your number will be the next one called to order at an amazing ice cream shop or bakery. You know, where you're surveying the goodies, pointing at this one and that one, finalizing your choices and deciding if you'll have a coffee to go along with your treat once your number is called.

Let's go back to David Brooks' questions with a few ideas for answers:

1. What crossroads are you at? Banana split or affogato.

2. What would you do if you weren't afraid? Buy the new Airstream.

3. If you died tonight, what would you regret not doing? At that moment I would be beholding stuff that didn't include regrets.

4. If we meet a year from now, what will we be celebrating? That's a conundrum. A year is a long ways off and it will be here before we know it. Hopefully it will involve sitting beside a shiny Airstream, enjoying another banana split. My inability to honestly answer #6 is a hurdle to full disclosure of my answer to this question.

5. If the next five years is a chapter in your life, what is that chapter about? Peace, love and joy.

6. Can you be yourself where you are and still fit in? Where it really matters: yes! These days though, I tend to make my world too small.

If you're a goldfish, a small small world is okay. The comic Dusty Slay does a bit about the short memory of the goldfish. He tells of a goldfish circling his little aquarium, "Hey, look! There's a scuba diver in here." "Hey look, a treasure chest!" "Hey, look! There's a scuba diver in here." "Hey look, a treasure chest!" "Hey, look! There's a scuba diver in here." "Hey look, a treasure chest!"

Thankfully, for all of us, there is the promise of more. It's okay to occasionally speak the language of in-between where we start our thoughts and sentences with: "For now..."

Let's meet again on July 12, 2026 and celebrate the past and the wonder about future.

IN THE MOMENT

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"Sometimes we don’t recognize a narrative when we’re living it." That's not a quote from a famous speech or a book or movie. I read it in the comments of a sports blog. That doesn't make it less thought provoking though. Does it?

You know the analogy about future/past perspective: "You can either look through the windshield or you can look in the rearview mirror."

There's at least one other option (we'll get to that in few more paragraphs), but first let's step out of our car and pretend we are watching it from the outside as it goes through life. Try this: imagine you're in one of those Little Tikes cars going through Kindergarten. Looking through the windshield at your future is myopic at best. We can barely see past recess and naptime to gathering our jacket and lunchbox to head home for the day. This little car doesn't even have a rearview mirror which is fine. There's just not much "past" back there to view anyway.

How about the cool car of our adolescence? Again, there's not much in that rearview--little experience to inform the decisions about the road ahead. We’re probably more enthralled with what’s happening in the car rather than what’s ahead. Hopefully we see the next curve coming,

It seems like this is where we can fall prey to the third option in our windshield/rearview mirror metaphor. This is the one where we are looking at the windshield but not through it to the path ahead. We are in the moment and the moment only. Next time you're in the car try it. Just look at the windshield. Focus on some bug guts if that helps. Don't try it long because it can be disorienting. It's like time is marching on, the miles are passing but we're neither forward-focused or looking back to inform the future.

Ever have one of those moments when you're driving, your mind drifts, all of a sudden you realize you've driven several miles but you can't remember the details?

Don't get me wrong; I'm not disparaging living in the moment. I'm a big fan of daydreaming and peaceful reverie. Maybe though, I need to replace the blank stare at the bird poop on the windshield with an occasional look out of the side windows, taking in the moment, making the most of the trip.

All this introspection about introspection turned to some recent soul searching for me. It all started when watching a documentary called "The Jesus Music". It dawned on me just how formative that era and that music was. Jesus Music was at the heart of what Time magazine called "The Jesus Movement". This thing that started in southern California, and as it spread across the country and my psyche, became part of me and I became part of it in a small way; maybe a few small ways.

The whole hippie movement had an appeal. I was fascinated by the whole "antiestablishmentarianism" of it all. (Ever since I learned that word and discovered it was one of the longest of our language I've been trying to find a way to use it in a sentence. Check that off the bucket list.) This movement gave me a way to be a little transgressive but still compliant with my upbringing.

Not only did I quickly adopt this new genre of music, setting "christian" messages as lyrics to the rhythms, melodies and chord structures and instrumentation of folk/rock music of the 60s and 70s, but I got the opportunity to join some fine musicians as the drummer in a Jesus Music band called "Light". It was largly bank-rolled by a man named John Frank who was the founder of Frankoma pottery. He had a heart for ministries to kids.

We played in coffeehouses, which were springing up in empty downtown buildings all over (places for young "Jesus Freaks" to hang out), and at "Jesus Festivals" (outdoor mini Woodstock type gatherings). We didn't play in churches. At that time, drums and electric guitars were the devil's instruments.

a concert poster i saved from back in the day. according to the u.s. inflation calculator $2.00 in 1972 would be about $15.30 today. Still a pretty cheap date.

People like evangelist Jimmy Swaggart had a few things to say about the music:

"Swaggart, was conducting one of his mass revival crusades in New Haven, Connecticut. Before the cameras and the glare of stage lights he paced back and forth, waving his arms like he was fending off a swarm of bees. He raised his Bible high above his head. He shouted at his audience about the moral degeneracy that dragged reprobates through the gates of hell. He took aim at ‘the devil’s music’: rock and roll. How had Christians made peace with this vile, hideous music, he asked with urgency in his voice: ‘You cannot proclaim the message of the anointed WITH THE MUSIC OF THE DEVIL!’ shouted Swaggart. —https://www.historytoday.com/miscellanies/god-gave-rock-and-roll-you

One of the earliest pioneers of Jesus Music, Larry Norman, had a hard-driving song to counter Swaggart's point:

I want the people to know that he saved my soul
But I still like to listen to the radio
They say rock 'n' roll is wrong,
We'll give you one more chance
I say I feel so good I gotta get up and dance

I know what's right,
I know what's wrong,
I don't confuse it
All I'm really trying to say
Is why should the devil have all the good music?
I feel good every day
'Cause Jesus is the rock and he rolled my blues away!

larry norman from his album “only visiting this planet”

Apparently a real rocker, with shoulder length hair, swatting the hornet's nest so to speak, didn't do much to smooth the gap between this new movement and the established church. It took Billy Graham himself to calm the panic of church leaders and help them see that there can be other songs along with "How Great Thou Art" and "Just As I Am" to move people.

By 1969, Graham had launched a series of youth nights during his crusades, which attracted young Jesus Freaks with a laidback coffeehouse vibe, and folk singers. By 1994, huge acts such as DC Talk and Michael W. Smith headlined a series of revamped Billy Graham crusade youth nights. Teenagers could belt out Smith’s “Place in This World” and headbang to DC Talk’s “Jesus Freak” before hearing a “grandfatherly” Graham deliver a short gospel sermon. Graham’s reaction after the first such concert, held in Cleveland: “Personally, I didn’t understand a word of those songs [as they were being sung]. But I had all the lyrics written down, and they were straight Bible; great lyrics.” —https://www.christianitytoday.com/2024/04/songs-love-sing-billy-graham-edith-blumhofer-crusades/

Shortly after that, I toured with a youth group, playing drums in a musical, performed in a number of churches. Teens and young adults gave great reviews. More than a few old deacons gathered on the church steps afterward to have a cigarette and wonder out loud what fresh hell they had just witnessed, no doubt prophesying the end of the world as they knew it.

As Jesus Music was taking root I began working with youth in local churches. I always made it a priority to try to expose as many of them as possible to a wide spectrum of music and musicians, not just as listeners but as participants themselves. Now, many years later, I look in the rearview mirror and realize I am grateful for those early troubadours, those ground-breaking disciples. I am grateful to courageous leaders like Billy Graham, to my own Dad and Brother who were open to new expressions of the power of music. I am grateful for the vulnerable who let me set up a drum kit and play in the Sanctuary of the church they led. And I'm grateful to some of my favorites:

Larry Norman
Randy Stonehill
Second Chapter of Acts
Jars of Clay
Jennifer Knapp
Audio Adrenalin
A Few Small Fish
U2
DC Talk
Switchfoot
Sixpence None The Richer

... just to name a few.

Now at 70-something, most of the ride is in the rearview mirror--not trying to be morbid, just honest. If I'm not careful though about too much longing for the good old days, I'll wake up and someone else will be doing the driving. I'll be in that rear-facing seat in the back of the station wagon, which is terrifying because we had one of those in a family car of my youth and I would always get car-sick riding in the way-back. It's a wonder I don't have a drug problem; I always enjoyed the haze of a Dramamine induced nap on a long, long road trip.

Here's a suggestion for road trip music for this stage of the journey:

Now think back to when you were a child
Your soul was sweet, your heart ran wild
Each day was different and life was a thrill
You knew tomorrow would be better still

But things have changed, you're much older now
If you're unhappy and you don't know how
Why don't you look into Jesus?
He got the answer

--lyrics from verse 2 of "Look Into Jesus" by Larry Norman.

"DOES ANYBODY REALLY

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KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?" asks the lyrics of the "Chicago" song. And then: "Does anybody really care?"

This is a post--about time. I'm going to borrow some of Chicago's lyrics to add a bit of poetry to this one.

As I was walking down the street one day
A man came up to me and asked me
What the time was that was on my watch
Yeah... and I said

(I don't) Does anybody really know what time it is?
(Care) Does anybody really care?
(About time) If so, I can't imagine why
(Oh no, no) We've all got time enough to cry

Maybe it's inevitable that us old guys spend time wondering about time and wandering through those pleasant, peaceful places of reverie. It doesn't take much to push me there. According to notes written on my grade school report cards and whispered to my parents at Parent/Teacher Conferences, I am a master daydreamer. A waste of time? Certainly not! But, even if it is: so what?

I was listening to my "Heavy Rotation Mix" on Apple Music--songs that I play over and over. The song playing was "Living On Tulsa Time" by Don Williams. Immediately I was a kid again in my home town. I spent my first twenty-ish coming-of-age years Living On Tulsa Time. Happy days indeed; at least as I choose to remember them. Where did the time go? Really. Where DID the time go?

“The happier the time, the shorter it seems.”
— Pliny the Younger. 105.

And I was walking down the street one day
A pretty lady looked at me
And said her diamond watch had stopped cold dead
And I said

(I don't) Does anybody really know what time it is?
(Care) Does anybody really care?
(About time) If so, I can't imagine why
(Oh no, no) We've all got time enough to cry

Jerry Seinfeld, in a video sharing his "essential" stuff, explains his favorite way to brew coffee: using a Moka Pot. He explains that it is complicated and time-consuming but that's what he likes about it. In the video he shares this viewpoint: "The secret of life is to waste time in ways that you like. You spend all your life trying to save time but when you get to the end of your life--there's no time left--then you'll go to heaven and you'll go: 'but wait I had velcro sneakers and no-iron shirts and a clip-on tie. What about all that time?!' It's gone." --Jerry Seinfeld

Let's look at that one part again, the part where he says, "The secret of life is to waste time in ways that you like."

Maybe you've heard: I got a new globe. It's wonderful. Our GrandGuys (ages 7 and 5) came for a visit the other day. They noticed the globe right away. Aha, this will be my chance to teach them a bit of geography. They were fascinated! Not by my grasp of geography, but "Hey let's see how fast we can spin it!"

"Don't," I say, lovingly and instructively. "If you spin it too fast all the little people all over the earth will go flying off into space." A quick lesson on gravity and basic physics? Not interested. We did take time to find Oklahoma and the United States. "It's kind of small." says the seven year old. In the scope of the whole big ball, it is, kind of small. I explained that some day we might also have this part (pointing at Greenland). "What do you mean?" the five year old wonders out loud. Good question.

It was fun and time well-spent and it went by in a blur like a spinning globe. BTW: it will spin really fast; and sometimes it feels like it is spinning really fast. (Weird thought: Wouldn't it be crazy if God just got fed up with us and decided to give it a good spin and we would all go flying off into space along with parts from one of Elon's blown up rockets.)

And I was walking down the street one day
Being pushed and shoved by people
Trying to beat the clock, oh, no
I just don't know, I don't know, I don't know-oh

And I said... yes, I said
People runnin' everywhere
Don't know where to go
Don't know where I am
Can't see past the next step
Don't have time to think past the last one
Have no time to look around
Just run around, run around think why

“Time is like a river made up of the events which happen, and a violent stream; for as soon as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another comes in its place, and this will be carried away too.”
— Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

I think I get what Marcus is saying, but what about reverie Marcus? Things don't get carried away all together. Something is left behind. I remember friends and loved ones who have gone before me. I remember living on Tulsa time. I remember our first date, our first kiss, the births of our sons... Know what I mean.

Sometimes I wish I could make time slow down, but if Pliny The Younger is right: that happy and fleeting go together, I'll take that. Like Jerry, my morning coffee routine is time consuming, but it makes coffeetime sweeter. Treading in the dark land of politics and its sordid affair with religion makes four years seem like an eternity. Realizing how fast the Grands are growing is dizzying but glorious. Watching them become the beautiful people they are: worth it. Marcus' time-as-a-river metaphor has sent me to remembering another--from one of my favorite books/movies of all time: A River Runs Through It.

“Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

“Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fisherman in western Montana, where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

"I am haunted by waters.”

THOUGHTS AT 74

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I'm sensing that I may not be sensing as much as I used to. Take seeing, smelling, touching, hearing and tasting; sometimes those things don't seem as sharp as they once were, say, fifty or one year ago.

I need My Amazing-Missus more. I need her to tell me if the milk smells okay, or if the turkey, which looks a little greenish to me, tastes safe. Remember the old joke about the cannibal that took a bite of a clown and then asked his wife, "Does this taste funny to you?"

At first I thought maybe I just wasn't paying attention. According to some teachers of my school-days I have that inclination--to not pay attention. Maybe now, as then, I tend to be picky about what I find to be attention-worthy. I think I've already established that if your give-a-crapper is broken, your sense of attention-paying is afflicted as well. It's hard to pay attention to what you don't care about.

A few days ago at a holiday gathering, my youngest Grand, soon to be five, was reminiscing about a Christmas past (one of his four). "Hey, Pops, hey! Do you remember that time..." Honestly; I said that I didn't recall that. "What's wrong old man can't you remember stuff?" he said with love.

I explained to him that I have a zillion-million more memories to keep track of than he does. Then I used a sure-fire strategy to change the subject, "Hey do you want to watch Sonic or Ninja Turtles or something else enriching?"

Jeremiah and I are the chronological bookends of our family. He's the one that helps me most to stay anchored in the reality that I'm old, but that maybe I have strengths now that I didn't have when I was younger. He doesn't have to verbally remind me that I'm old. It can happen like this: "Hey, Pops, Hey, why don't you sit on the floor and we'll play Spiderman with these Legos?!" I assess the situation and imagine trying to get up from the floor in an hour or so. "How about if we pretend that I'm a creature from the planet 'Recliner' and I'm trapped in it's extra-strong gravitational pull." He seems to accept this premise. "Are you good or bad?" he asks. "The jury is still out."

Is it true that if someone is lacking in one of the senses, the others are somehow enhanced to make up the difference? I've always heard that. Is it true that if you are diminshed olfactory-wise that your sense of taste is stricken as well?

Now I'm veering off into physical science and I have no business there. Let's get back to psycho-social space, a room I have now qualms about bouncing around in.

One of my favorite movies set around Christmas and the days after is The Family Man starring Nicholas Cage and Téa Leoni. It has a feeling of old scrooge being carried back and forward in time. Cage's character "Jack" is given the opportunity to catch a glimpse of what his life might have looked like and somehow magically having the chance to make a new choice.

- Please just tell me what's happening to me in plain English...without the mumbo-jumbo.

- This is a glimpse, Jack.

- A glimpse? A glimpse of what?

- You're gonna have to figure that out for yourself and you got plenty of time.

- How much time?

- As much time as it takes, which in your case is probably gonna be considerable.

That's a few lines from the movie--sort of a teaser. It's worth watching, IMHO. (As the kids say).

While my five physical senses may not be as sharp as they once were, others are serving me well: my sense of humor, my sense of authenticity vs. B.S., my sense of what's important, my sense of faith and hope, my sense of urgency.

Here's what I mean about that last one, hoping to not sound too doom and gloomish. I mentioned Jeremiah's four Christmases of memories and my seventy-three. (I wrote about Remembering in my last post.) Obviously he has years of memories to come. Me? Not as many. Just facts. The sense of urgency though of seizing moments isn't really about limited time. It's about being extra alert, listening, seeing, hearing, tasting and touching as I never have before. Soaking up as much as I can. Wringing the cloth of every drop of opportunity. Even though I may not see as well as I once did, I know for a fact that if I take the time and give the attention I will be able to see more than I ever have. Now, whether I'll be able to remember it tomorrow... Even my nearly 5 year-old grandson knows that us old men tend to forget; but only some things. Others are indelible.

Here’s one of my favorite poems, one by Walt Whitman. Some say that old Walt was gay and that this poem was about a meeting with someone he knew intimately. For me it is about the relationship of an old man and the person he was when he was young. I often remember that person--the me of my youth. A person who had a wide-eyed, sometimes naive curiosity, drawn to creativity that brought discovery and joy.

A Glimpse: Poem by Walt Whitman

A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,

Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,

late of a winter night--And I unremark'd seated in a corner;

Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and

seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;

A long while, amid the noises of coming and going--of drinking and

oath and smutty jest,

There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,

perhaps not a word.

I'll admit. Sometimes I enjoy the company of the memories of grade-school me, or high school graduate me, or newly married me, or first-time father me, or Pops me. It gives me a glimpse of what was, what might have been and what can be. Those old friends give perspective and are useful to us.

For example, recently, we took GrandGirl Nora to a gymnastics meet. As we drew close to the venue, she talked about being nervous. She didn't ask if I've ever been nervous before a big event, but I offered an unsolicited anecdote anyway--something I enjoy doing. I told her about my first accordian concert. I was six. Dressed in black pants, a white sportcoat, and little black bowtie. I squeezed my best version of "Three Blind Mice" out of that shiny black accordian. I returned to my seat next to my parents. Mom was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. I guess when you think about it, it is a sad song. These poor little mice were not only blind but they had just had there tails whacked off with a carver's knife by the farmer's wife. Anyway, the point of my story of empathy regarding pre-performance jitters was lost because I had to try to explain to Nora what an accordian was and why I was forced to take lessons on the thing. The good news: the story got us to the venue where she saw a teammate and her coach. Five gold medals and one silver, and all was well.

P.S.: At 74 I’m starting my 75th year. As I look at the world as it is, I have a few of those butterflies and jitters, however, I am not without hope. I have a glimpse and a sense that there is a plan bigger than all of us. “A plan for good and not for evil”. Here's a link to a post I wrote more than five years ago. It's still true for me. Maybe you'll find it helpful. CLICK HERE TO READ IT.