Where do they go?

I'm clear on what happens to our bodies. I've watched the whole process, from the births of my six children, to their steady growth until the onset of puberty, where their transformation is one of the most terrifying yet liberating experiences of the whole parental journey.

On through adulthood, and the laughter of 20-somethings, the biological clock of 30-somethings, the terror of 40-somethings as they feel like they "lose" their looks, to the 50-somethings, where truth suppresses once and for all those destructive youthful impulses.

I'm about to embark on the next stage, and I can't say it pleases me. Even though media reports suggest that 60 is the "new middle age," it doesn't feel that way to me. So, I guess I'm in a rebellious mood; after all, I'm not yet "old," no, I still have a few weeks left.

Outside, on point, the weather has yielded a summery San Francisco night, the kind where romance hangs in the air. I turned down an extremely attractive proposition to go out drinking with some youthful folks, one of whom is a friend, because I don't usually do that anymore.

But I recall when I did, so I wished her well, and I hope they have fun.

Later on, beyond my stage, all of the wrinkles and blotches and etches that define our lifetimes as physical beings start to take over our bodies completely, until we become rather scary -- dead people not yet dead.

When death comes, we look entirely different again, and it is impossible to describe that difference. I sat my both of my parents as they passed away. I stroked their hands; kissed their cheeks, spoke to them in low tones.

I wonder whether my children will also be able to do that for me on some future day or night, or if I will die alone. Who knows? Circumstances beyond our control always determine our endings, unless, of course, we choose to take this into our own hands.

***

So, that is the physical cycle, and I get it now, fully. As to our mental selves, our cerebral lives, I've got a pretty good handle on where that stuff goes. We either write or we don't write. Everybody I know well I've urged to write -- maybe just a private journal, or maybe a public blog like this one -- anything, but just a record of their ups and downs.

My sweet friend Michelle told me she can tell from my blog whether I am "up" or "down," and she's right about that. Because whatever I write in whatever manner, I cannot truly mask my moods, the feelings that swarm up through me, day after day and night after night.

And that is what I am wondering about tonight: Where do our feelings go? I'm quite clear about how our flesh disintegrates, stealing our beauty and turning us into scary skeletons and ghosts. I know we preserve our ideas and our thoughts in our writings, letters, emails, books, articles, etc.

But, where go our emotions? What is it that so shakes us as we pass a redolent tree, suddenly sniffing a memory? What about when we actually look into another's eyes and are startled by the recognition of something long misplaced? Why can we bite into a piece of food and then experience a rush of memories we'd long thought we'd forgotten?

Why, when holding each other in an intimate embrace, do we suddenly remember another, long gone? Why, when I walk down the street, and a pretty young woman passes by, do I feel an urge to explain to her that this will not last, this state she enjoys?

Why, when my young sons drive themselves way beyond the point of exhaustion in sporting events to try and help their teams win, do I savor the moment with such urgency that tears fill my eyes?

Why, when my daughters marry, and I escort them on my arm toward their husbands-to-be, do my emotions overwhelm me so much that I am a true basket case, crying there in the first row, after I give her "away?"

Why does every transition cause me such pain? Every good-bye, every leaving?

Where do our feelings go? When a woman I have loved deeply hugs and kisses me for the last time, and then drives away, crying; while I am left stupidly, dry-eyed, standing in the middle of an intersection where nobody knows or cares for me, do I suspect that I do not know what is really going on?

All of these feelings, so powerful yet so ineffable.

I could be the greatest writer in history, which I am not, but I couldn't pretend to tell you where our feelings go.





It's a mystery.



Maybe is this why, at the end, the supernatural (i.e., religion) holds such a grip on humans?

For me, there are other explanations, such as the lines written by one our greatest poets, Hank Williams:

Im a rollin stone all alone and lost
For a life of sin I have paid the cost
When I pass by all the people say
Just another guy on the lost highway

Just a deck of cards and a jug of wine
And a womans lies makes a life like mine
O the day we met, I went astray
I started rolling down that lost highway

I was just a lad, nearly 22
Neither good nor bad, just a kid like you
And now Im lost, too late to pray
Lord I take a cost, o the lost highway

Now boys dont start to ramblin round
On this road of sin are you sorrow bound
Take my advice or youll curse the day
You started rollin down that lost highway


Judge others, if you must. Men's feelings, as painful as this may be to accept, often grow out of "a womans lies." That is the story of the lost highway so many of us end up traveling.

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