Learning That You Can't

My eyeballs still betray me now and then. Even though I had lens-replacement surgery a few months ago (and my sight, when it works, is far better than it had been pre-surgery), if I ask too much of my eyes (several hours of steady reading say), they protest, they revolt, they go on strike: The page gets fuzzy; sometimes I see double. If I stop, lie down, close my eyes for a bit, they will recover, empowering me to do too much again so that they, once again, will protest, revolt, strike.

I was thinking about this today--about the times in your life when you discover that you just can't do want you want to do--or, even worse, dream to do.

Life, in a way, is discovering what you can't do--as well as what you can. And learning to be satisfied with (and even grateful for) the latter.

I learned in kindergarten that I couldn't draw worth a damn. (Kids around me were much better.) Oh well.

I learned, a bit later, I would never be the musician that my older brother was.

In middle school I learned I wasn't going to be the student that my older brother was. Oh well. Might as well quit trying, right? (And so I did for a few years.)

When my voice changed, I knew I would never be able to sing like my father, who had a wonderful tenor voice.

In high school I learned I was never going to be able to run as fast as I wanted to. Even my dad--an "old" man (almost 40!)--was faster than I.

In college I learned I was not going to be a professional baseball player, a professional basketball player, a professional tennis player. (And that eliminated all the sports I loved!)

When my younger brother started beating me (easily) in golf, I figured that sport, well, sucked. Why bother?

So ... by the time I started my first job--teaching 7th grade English (Language Arts) at the Aurora Middle School, Aurora, Ohio--I had quite a list of things I knew I would never be able to do. So I started figuring out what I could do--and do well enough to satisfy me.

I learned I could teach a little, could write a little, could direct school plays a little.

I met a wonderful woman and have spent the last 49 years learning how to love her. (Guys can be so slow, so dumb!)

And so my teaching career sailed on--and I loved it. I stole ideas from colleagues I admired (and, fortunately, there were a lot of them!); I read magazines and books and went to grad school and earned advanced degrees. I realized that learning stuff was, for me, among the most exciting things on earth.

I loved to travel--always had--and my interests in literary figures took me all over the U.S.--and lots of Europe.

I got older.

Illness noticed me one day, saw an opening, moved in. Impossible to evict.

And soon I was, once again, learning to accept the things that I could no longer do. Like read for hours on end. Like ride a bicycle. Like hop in a car and drive to Oregon. Like stay up late. Like go for a run (I used to jog 4-6 miles/day).

And so I grasp eagerly and greedily and thankfully those things I still can do. Laugh with Joyce. Bake bread. Write a book review once/week. Ride an exercise bike (oh, do I hate it!). Get my sorry behind over to the Open Door Coffee Company every morning--and most afternoons--to read and write and talk with a friend. Play with my grandsons (sort of). Write silly poems and sully Facebook with them.

Don't get me wrong: I am grateful for what that previous paragraph records. But, oh, do I miss sliding into second (safe!), hitting a key free throw, acing a tennis opponent, cooling down after a six-mile run, staying up late, reading for hours on end, coasting down a hill on my bike--something that has thrilled me since I was eight years old.

Between 2001-2011 I taught English (part-time) at Western Reserve Academy here in Hudson. It lies up the hill about three blocks from our house. In good weather I rode my bike. And when I came home during the day, flying down that hill on my bike, certain that I would be able to do this forever, well, I felt those twin joys of freedom of movement and self-delusion.