Category Archives: Community

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Staying Forever Young

May you build a ladder to the stars

And climb on every rung

May you stay forever young

Those lyrics were written by Bob Dylan around 1973. I was in the sixth grade when it was released, so hey, I fit the bill. If I could quote the entire song here without violating copyright, I wouldn’t have to write the rest of this blog post. There you go, blame the copyright laws for making me try to find the words to reflect on the inspiration of a Nobel laureate.

I’m experiencing a moment of sentimentality, but allow me to position that as a positive. Last weekend my wife and I saw the musical Girl from the North Country, which is a collection of more than twenty Dylan songs wrapped around a rather grim story of a boarding house full of exhausted souls during the Great Depression. It’s a a curious pastiche, but from what I can tell Dylan endorsed it. The penultimate number is Forever Young. You don’t need to know more than that — just that this song landed a powerful blow on me at an opportune moment, which is what an impossibly eternal song never ceases to do.

Dylan wrote the song for his children. It has popped up in every context imaginable over the ensuing decades. Google it, the impact is vast and varied. This month it is speaking to me.

A few weeks ago my niece got married on a beach in the rain. She and her fiance looked every bit the part of a couple starting on the next phase of their journey. You can’t help but see the light in the eyes of young love and remember when you stood where they stood. Your youth is your superpower. It is filled with hope, promise, aspiration, and authenticity. The older generations invited to share in the celebration see themselves in the eyes of the betrothed. We are aware of our age, but that isn’t what runs through our minds when vows are exchanged. We try to connect the now to then. In that moment, we remain forever young.

I happen to be on my way to a college reunion. It is a milestone that can be divided evenly by too many integers. The decades behind can’t help but denote age, it’s the underlying purpose of the occasion, to bring together in the present people who learned from each other in the past. Recently my classmates started posting photos of themselves from that time long ago, before mobile phones, digital cameras, and electronic image archives in the cloud. Mama don’t take my Kodachrome away! That’s borrowed from Paul Simon for anyone not of a certain age. Yep, those photos have been sitting in envelopes from mail-in film processing, pasted up in laminated albums stashed under beds, now succumbing to scanning technology and <gasp> social media. I look into the bright eyes of students I knew when Reagan was president and I am convinced they remain forever young.

I look at the conflict in our nation and as hard as I try I barely recognize the place I thought it would become. I talk to my dad about living through World War II as a child and his dreams as a third-generation American for the broadening perspective he believed was ahead for all of us. I’m not sure he realized how idealistic he was as a young man, not fully comprehending the scope of the Civil Rights movement as it emerged all around him, but certainly not expecting to hear so many of the angry expressions currently creeping back into the vernacular. When we sit together now at baseball games, I remember being a young boy also sitting with him at baseball games wondering if the world could be any more perfect than watching Al Kaline catch a deep fly ball to right field on the warning track to end an inning. Today at the games we share, I wonder if my dad in his mind sees himself the way I see myself, not our current age, but with the idea that the life then ahead of us would always be driven by imagination over conflict. In those shared moments of retained dreams, we remain forever young.

Age is real. None of us escapes it. Some of us navigate its trials better than others. It can be genetics. It can be lifestyle. I’d like to say it can also be attitude but like so many my age I’ve seen too much to crawl under that blanket. What I do know is that inside each of us is that very wish Dylan asked us to preserve. It’s there for as long as we remember it, revitalize it, rekindle it. Our bodies will slow, maybe even our minds will slow, but our vision of what we can be is ours to infuse with resonance, To see ourselves in those earlier years can carry us into a more profound, more hopeful, more caring, and more empathetic present for as long as it lasts.

That is the song I am hearing right now and it’s blasting on all channels in stereo.

May your heart always be joyful

May your song always be sung

May you stay forever young.

_______________

Image: Pixabay

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Wishes for Spring

Spring offers a time time of hope. The metaphor of winter cold easing to the warmth of spring is powerful, with leafless branches returning to bud break and darker days becoming brighter. It is a time when vast numbers of people around the world celebrate some of the most important religious holidays. Inspiring themes of resilience and renewal surround Easter, Passover, and Ramadan. It should be a time of joy, a stage for diverse perspectives that open our minds to new goals we can share.

In the aftermath of the Covid-19 crisis, it would seem that sense of possibility could be real. While good fortune has transpired for some, we know too well there are shadows on our highest hopes. We long for justice that too often remains elusive. Where is the rainbow breaking through our current clouds?

Here are four aspirational wishes I hold this spring, that I hope can unite us, that seem tangible if we put our differences aside for the greater good, but clearly are a long way from our reach:

May we soon achieve a peaceful resolution in Gaza, with all of the hostages released, an end to the violence, and a new beginning for Israeli-Palestinian cooperation.

May we soon achieve a peaceful resolution in Ukraine, with self-determination of the Ukrainian nation supported by the global community, and an end to the invasion brought on by an autocratic despot.

May the U.S. Congress set aside petty bickering and short-term political volleying to establish a reasonable, sustainable, practical, empathetic, and humane policy for immigration.

May the U.S. Presidential election not deteriorate into chaos, hyperbole, manipulated falsehoods, dishonest rhetoric, and instead show the world that representative democracy can be conducted with integrity and is still possible as a respectable form of government.

Those lofty wishes have consumed my consciousness all through this troubling winter. May that heartfelt meditation now turn to collective imagination, with spring in the air and visions of hope always worth our dedication and service. I wish to be writing with increasing hope as spring turns to summer and we discover the best in ourselves and always each other.

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Photo: Pixabay

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David Coon: An Appreciation

The end of each year is a time for reflection. We often look back on the past year and try to summarize our milestones. Sometimes we set New Year’s resolutions with the best of intentions. At the moment I’m thinking about someone who won’t be part of the new year.

That is the way of things, perhaps the hardest part of being human, knowing almost as soon as cognition forms that there are bookends on all of us. That inescapable awareness is in many ways the essence of our humanity. We have no choice but to internalize it with relative calm. It doesn’t make it easier when we say goodbye, but it does give us a chance to express thanks for the lives around us who change the course of our own.

The Reverend David P. Coon was the head of the school I attended through middle and high school. He officiated at my wedding. I dedicated my second book to him. It is difficult to record in words what he meant to me because I would be looking for the kind of words it takes to summarize five decades of character-building.

Certainly the earliest of those years were more concentrated, but those took place at a time when I was least likely to understand the transformation he was causing to occur in my mindset. In those days he was Father Coon and I would literally tilt my head up to be able to look into his eyes. He walked the halls of our campus with a magnificent physical presence, a baritone voice that reverberated in the corridors, an embodiment of pure confidence, and a sense of authority that never needed to be asserted. He could be questioned on matters of intellectual curiosity, but not on matters of expectation. He expected we would take our education seriously, our shared community seriously, the mandate of maintaining humility seriously, and the place we would come to take in the world seriously.

He was a serious man and he endeavored to help us see the seriousness in the paths before us. He also laughed as loudly as anyone I’ve met and made us laugh, mostly at ourselves at the times our seriousness crossed into counterproductive meandering. We could ponder the world, obsess on this philosopher or that scientist, but we always needed to be moving forward. Laughing at ourselves moved us forward. It helped us frame ambition appropriately in service to others. It was okay to be on a reward path, but it was not okay to think that material rewards meant a hill of beans compared to healing our world. To gain his respect, we would be required to commit our gifts to the continuum of that healing.

I would not be exaggerating to share that without Father Coon’s influence, it is unlikely I would be typing these words. Our teenage years are a crapshoot at best; mine were a casino where the odds were daunting. Somehow this stranger, this teacher of the impossible, got me to stop betting against myself. He mopped up a mess and caused me to believe everything ahead of me was more important than everything behind me. How much of that did I understand? Come on, I was a teenager, none of it. Yet I remember it now, and it works even better with fewer years left ahead of me than there are behind me.

Was he a visionary? He would just say he was a teacher. I’m going to stick with visionary.

His career was remarkable, but I am going to let others write about the expanse of that. He took an all-boys school built on the ancient tradition of recital and transformed it into a modern coeducational place of learning. He initiated change that broadened the paradigm of “sage on the stage” to embrace peer cooperation that put the whole of the student body above the celebration of any single student. One Team, we called it. He elevated ‘Iolani School to global recognition as a laboratory of exemplary process and a trusted model for lasting outcomes.

He took the tragic lessons of the Vietnam War and opened the minds of a diverse audience to the possibility of peace. His sermons beckoned the beauty and unlimited empowerment of embracing one’s opposite. He was a theologian who could preach with the best of them, but he was a pragmatist who knew declarations without substantive action were the fast track to cynicism. He was not a cynic. His faith was unwavering, a boundless reservoir of resilience and optimism, ardently tested, joyously unshakeable.

If you needed food, water, a quiet moment of prayer, or a reinforcing nod of encouragement, you didn’t have to ask. He was always showing us how kindness and strength were compatible. He was an inspirer of unusual aspiration. The highest order of ourselves is of course never achievable, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to make it our life’s work to try.

Later in life, when he presumed I had reached adulthood, he insisted I call him Dave. That in his mind was one of the least difficult challenges he presented to me. If only he knew.

My wife, Shelley, there with Dave and a few family attendees at our wedding with a little New Testament and a little Old Testament, likes to talk about planting seeds. This is her spirituality, and she immerses herself in it as a matter of routine. When I mention the five decades of Dave, it is just these seeds that he planted that have blossomed in different expressions over the years. At our wedding, as I broke the glass, this Episcopal priest belted out the words “Mazel Tov” with such resonance they probably echoed in Jerusalem.

Those echoes live in me today. I’ll carry the octaves of his voice with me until my inescapable fate is the same as his, the same as us all. The learning inside me is without end because he made that important to me. The questions in me are more important than the answers because he showed me why the questions are eternal but the answers get rewritten by the centuries. Judgment is for the certain, and how many of us can be that certain with so little knowledge? Reflection takes us forward, always forward, because it requires systemically removing our ignorance. Forward is a path to wisdom, where humility is not a choice, but a necessity.

Demonstration of awe and honor is common among theologians. Dave knew that, likely early in his life, no problem. Would you expect less of a kid who grew up boxing in Flint, Michigan only to become a man of the cloth in Hawaii? The trick wasn’t that he knew it. The trick was he got me to know it, a highly unlikely candidate for that sort of unnerving alchemy.

And the next kid. And the next kid. And the next kid.

Those were the seeds he never stopped planting. They flourish now in every part of our world, across languages and borders, wherever there is a need for healing. The lives he inspired carry forward hope, breathe aspiration, and most of us try to remember on occasion to laugh.

Earlier this month I received our usual Christmas card from Dave and his wife, Joanne. In it was a printed note that said it would be their last, that they were going to spend their remaining time focused on each other and their family. I immediately put our card in the mail to them, telling them I would frame their photo and keep it on my desk forever. That card came back undeliverable. Of course, I didn’t know he was in hospice. That makes this almost our last Christmas together.

I end the year incomplete. Timing is everything and we seldom get to say goodbye to everyone we lose. I enter the new year a little more alone, a little less formed, but in knowledge that those seeds were well-planted if not fully seen and understood a half-century ago. Our character is tested daily, our mistakes are endless, and our learning is forever incomplete. Each of us should be so lucky as to have a few people who guided us forward and never let go. If you enjoy the good fortune to have been so inspired by a person of such wisdom, there aren’t enough ways or words to say thank you. We can only offer a humble appreciation.

Dave, this appreciation is eternal, as are your teachings, as is your incomparable love.

_______________

Image: Dave & Joanne Coon, Christmas Card 2023

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Making Sense of the Senseless

It’s a strange time, stranger than any I can remember in the second half of my life.

If you try to summarize the number of global issues our nation faces, it begins to feel unprecedented. There is violence on three fronts in Israel arising from the horrific terrorist attacks of Hamas. There is the question of how Iran and Hezbollah will accelerate that conflict. Putin is still waging a brutal war on Ukraine. No one is quite sure what Xi will do in Taiwan. Kim Jong Un remains a force of chaos in North Korea. That’s a lot of global conflict without much epicenter.

Then there is the building lack of faith in our government. The divisiveness between and within the parties is all but unbridgeable. Maybe we’ll fund the government, maybe we won’t. What happens if we have to make a really big decision, like going to war as a nation? Do we have the wherewithal to come together on anything that is consequential?

Inflation drags on family budgets. Healthcare costs continue to soar, while faith in modern medicine is frayed. Gun violence takes lives every day. The education gap widens and so does income inequality.

When we aren’t angry or fighting with each other with uncontained words, we often take on a cold silence of passive aggression, too exhausted to argue, knowing we can’t change each other’s minds. The internet should have been a gift of doors opening to each other, but we know it is anything but that.

In the midst of all that, we go to work. We try to focus on our goals. We try to do right by our customers, partners, and employees. We look for a path to salvation in our tangible achievements, but those are increasingly less tangible.

Two to three times each day people come into my office “just to talk” or call me on the phone with a long pause often preceding the inevitable opening remarks, “Hey, Ken, how are you doing with all this?”

I guess the flattering part is people think I might have something worthwhile to say. It feels like the days after 9-11. I had little worthwhile to say then. I have less now. It is impossible to make sense of the senseless.

I’m a trailing-edge baby boomer born many years after the last world war, but I wonder if this is how it might have felt then, when parts of Europe were being overrun and Asia was in equal turmoil. The US waited for its leadership to guide us toward the good. Then we were attacked, which made the response largely unanimous. Can we respond to anything unanimously today? Is there an FDR we have yet to meet waiting to show us what leadership means?

Back to the idea of trying to work steadily through all this. I often suggest to people that compartmentalizing can be an effective strategy for getting things done in a day despite the overwhelming distractions. I’m doing it increasingly, but I am finding it more challenging. Remember, we are making sense of the senseless. That’s hard to do and tackle your monthly sales quota without fail.

Few of us have the option of letting world events be an excuse for missing business goals. We all have inescapable responsibilities. We have to do what we have to do.

First of all, we have to be human. I am hopeful we can also be humane.

I write this as I am wrapping up project reviews for the past year, building a budget and a work plan for the new year with our team, and trying to listen closely to the smartest people around me offer wisdom on how to navigate the shaky ground we share. I read the Wall Street Journal for clues on where the economy is headed, but it is like a giant treasure hunt where no one knows if the treasure has actually been hidden let alone where. How do you find firm ground when the elephants won’t stop jumping on it, not even to take a breath?

Here’s what I know: Wherever we are, whatever we are doing, we don’t have to be in this alone. If you think it’s hard to make sense of the senseless, you might have retained enough of your good senses to share that concern with another caring soul who can help you by listening. Yes, you are still sane if you think we are dancing aimlessly in a circle of senselessness, but there is strength in numbers and even greater strength in diversity.

When people come to me and open their hearts with questions I am always listening. Sometimes they share perspectives I never expected. Sometimes they find a way to make me chuckle. I find that keeping some semblance of humor is a gut check on reason. The bonds between us that let us continue to be successful no matter the noise around us can only be severed if we let them.

I have no good answers. Senseless means senseless. Let today be a day of strength, tomorrow be a day of hope, and the next be one of empathy. We advance in infinitely small increments, sometimes so tiny they seem invisible. Yet the bonds between us were formed in better times, and the goals we share give us an abstract common purpose that brings with it the dawn of a future we can never fully imagine.

Bend toward justice. Don’t let the bad guys win. Don’t give up. It’s called a dream for a reason. Dreams of peace and healing are not senseless.

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Photo: Pixabay