No Woman, No Cry

Just down the road from my apartment there is a quaint little place called Vulcan Park that overlooks all of Birmingham. The park's crowning feature is an eighty foot tall Vulcan statue perched high atop Red Mountain that draws visitors from all over the city. Below the statue a walking trail winds alongside Red Mountain and offers breathtaking views of the city skyline down below. Every Sunday I make the short walk from my apartment to the park and slowly stroll down its winding path, my mind completely at ease and miles away from the mundane concerns that too often take precedence over everything else. Most days my walk is a solitary one, but if I do find company it is usually in the form of a passing jogger or family dog that has wandered too far from its owner up ahead. The path is always very quiet. So quiet, in fact, that it is easy to lose yourself in a moment's reflection and completely forget that sometimes a walk in the park can offer unexpected surprises. Sometimes, it can change your life forever.

Beside me something rustles. From somewhere in the waist-high grasses and kudzu covered tree branches that line the trail I see what appears to be some sort of creature lumbering out of the forest. Its appearance so startles me that for a moment I am paralyzed by the uncertainty of whether to run or indulge my curiosity. Before I have time to do either the creature turns to me, lifts one arm in the air and says, "Don't let me frighten you. I'm just on my way out"

The creature in front of me is no monster at all, but rather a homeless man who has spent the night sleeping in the woods along the trail. I have heard of the homeless sleeping here, but had never actually seen anyone stumble out of the woods before. The man's gait seemed unsteady and he wreaked of alcohol, his clothes slightly tattered and covered in dead leaves and dirt. Despite his compromised demeanor he must have at least been aware of my surprise and felt the need to offer some sort of explanation. Apparently after a night of drinking he wandered through the park before finding a nice patch of leaves to substitute for a bed. It was a familiar routine for him and he decided to ease his embarrassment a little by offering to walk with me and recall the sordid tale of how he had come to find himself in such a lowly state. His offer was curiously appealing and so we walked the path together, this homeless man and I, as he told me his story.

"The name's Marley," he said. "My friends call me Marley. I didn't mean to frighten you, what with me coming out of the woods like that lookin' quite ragged."

Marley was a man of about thirty-six who wore an old, secondhand jacket and dirty khaki pants that had faded into a muddy brown. His hair formed tightly woven dreadlocks and continued down his bearded chin to encase his entire head in a sort of derelict lion's mane. When I asked him why he was living in the woods he replied:

Marley: It wasn't always this way. For a time, many years ago, I had a quaint little house in Homewood. It wasn't grand by any means, but it was presentable and just enough for me. I had a wife too, a lovely woman she was. Lovely, lovely woman...

His words seemed to grow somber at the thought of his former life, and especially at the recollection of his wife.

Marley: But all that's gone now. My misfortune and poor decisions thereafter saw to that. It started with losing my job. Not my fault, really it wasn't. The steel mill I was working at went under and had to let a bunch of us go. Just like that, no job...but the bills kept coming. For a while I could deal with it, especially with my wife Marla to keep me going. She used to help me try to find a new job, something just to get me out of the house and back on my feet again. But I was too depressed to look for work so I started trying to cope in other ways. I started drinking. It was foolish, I know...but it helped me forget for a bit and that's all I really wanted to do.

We keep walking down the trail as he begins fidgeting through his pockets looking for something buried deep within. He pulls out a half empty flask and takes a healthy drink from it.

Marley: This is what did it. This is what caused her to leave. I chose this bottle over her, and what's worse, I didn't even realize what I had done until she was gone.

Me: She didn't try to help you? She didn't try to get you to stop?

Marley: Was it her responsibility?! Never...but in her kindness and love for me she did try. But I couldn't stop drinking, or didn't want to, and so after a year of trying to help me she finally left. That was four years ago and I still think about her every day.

In the corner of his right eye I notice a nearly imperceptible twitch as the wellspring borne from the rehashing of old memories is just beginning to form. He quickly wipes away his tears in hopes that I won't notice before saying to me, "Tell me something, son. Do you have a woman in your life?"

I stop walking. Just over the mountain a frigid wind comes roaring in and causes me to turn away as its bitterness bites into my exposed skin. I turn back towards Marley and reply, "I did once, but that was a long time ago"

Marley: But not anymore I see. Ah, these women are all the same...heartbreakers, all of 'em. Never there to help you when you need 'em and always lookin' for their Prince Charming.

Me: How can you say that? You just finished telling me that your wife comforted you for a year after you lost your job. She was patient with you through your troubles and even tried to help you stop drinking. She wasn't trying to break your heart...she was trying to love you!

Marley: Ah, so maybe they are not all heartbreakers after all. Perhaps sometimes it is the men who are the problem and just can't see it. But maybe now and then we find a good one, one who looks past our faults and sees something we ourselves are blind to. If you find one like that...

His words trail off as another fierce wind drowns out the last of his advice.

Me: What does it matter now? So what if I found her once. She's gone and nothing I can say or do will ever bring her back.

We stop at a clearing on the trail as Marley reaches out and points to the Birmingham skyline now visible through the trees.

Marley: Take a look down there son, take a look at the city down below.

Marley: You think you are the only one whose heart has ever been broken? There are a hundred thousand stories down there just like yours. Do you think all those people simply crawl into bed one day, curl up, and wait for life to pass by? Or do you think they move on, learn from their experience and become a better person because of it.

Me: But I just can't forget, I just can't ever forget how she made me feel. And what's more...I don't want to.

With that Marley put a hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes and said:

“You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before, she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She's not perfect - neither are you, and the two of you may never be perfect together. But if she can make you laugh, cause you to think, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break - her heart. So don't hurt her, don't change her, don't analyze and don't expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she's not there...because one day, she won't be”

With those words Marley and I reached the end of our time together. The trail ends by choosing one of two directions, a high road or a low road. I've been down both before and know the final destination of each.

Before I make my decision on which path to take I say my final words to Marley.

 Me: I still miss her.

Marley: I know you do son, I know you do.

Me: So does my story have a happy ending?

He turns his head away from me and begins walking back down the path before saying:

Marley: Like everyone else's, that all depends on when you stop telling it...so don't stop too soon.

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When I was in college I had a roommate who told me that the people in our lives are there for a day, a season, or a lifetime. It is a saying that I have reflected on many times over the years not because of its inherent profundity, but rather due to its recognition within my own life. Countless names and faces have occupied my attention for a day while a precious few have been with me throughout all of them. But what of that other group? What of those who are only with us for a season?

These are the people who can affect us most deeply I believe. They can teach us lessons we never would have known, introduce us to experiences we couldn't have imagined, and sometimes even touch our hearts in a way no one else ever does. They can do all of these things because these relationships are often times just on the precipice of transitioning to a lifetime before, either by fate or circumstance, they are snatched away from our grasp. Like a tree uprooted by a fearsome storm, the roots of the relationship are laid bare and the emotions aroused because of it ensure that every moment is illuminated like none other before it.

And then it's over. A person who you grew so very close to is out of your life forever. You turn to those who form part of your lifelong relationships for comfort, or you indulge in petty trysts with others who are forever relegated to a day. But always you shy away from the seasons, knowing that the sweetness of indulgence never quite overshadows the bitterness of regret. Despite all of the tender moments together, in your heart you wish you had never met her.

Years pass. Slowly at first, but gradually faster with each passing turn of the calendar. Memories that were etched onto your soul slowly fade away and a broken heart begins to mend. Moments that once seemed nearly transcendental in their recollection now suddenly elicit a far more mundane response. You realize that the relationship was never meant to go beyond a season, and what's more, you finally accept its passing. But more than this, you begin to understand that no relationship is forever, not even the ones that last a lifetime. All is temporary...all is fleeting.

Yet it's the acceptance of this unavoidable fact of life and, more importantly, our reaction to it that colors our world. I finally realized that it's not the endurance of a relationship that makes it valuable, but rather its intrinsic impermanence that makes it so special. It means that you never take a moment with her for granted, that you never let an opportunity pass to tell her you care. It means that you care about her so much that you are willing to spend what precious little time you have in this life together. That is why it is such a gift. You are giving her something you can't ever take back. And even when the hourglass runs out and the last grain of sand trickles through its narrow gate, your heart still rejoices that the two of you have shared a season of life together...if only for a moment.

Name ThisTune - An Explanation

In the six years that I have kept this online journal I have discussed everything from world events to local attractions, personal triumphs and dismal failures. I have spoken of philosophy and religion, interjected humor and the absurd, and even revealed intimate frustrations that have served as the catalyst for more entries than is likely prudent. In all that time I have never censored myself or refrained from delving into the specific troubles that I felt justifiably deserved an outlet. My reasons for doing so are as varied as they are uncertain. Some days I want to share an idea I have been pondering for some time, other times I seek a sympathetic ear to vent my frustrations. Some entries simply write themselves as my fingers furtively glide across the keyboard, uncertain of their next destination but trusting the latent ideas that stem from my subconscious to guide them all the same. It is with this approach that I have managed to craft some fairly revealing insights into my own psyche that have occasionally (albeit inadvertently) caused trouble. Such was the case just a few entries ago in a post entitled “Name ThisTune” when, for the first time, I decided to delete an entry that I had posted somewhat on a whim. It was an entry whose motivations were unclear, but one in which the impending consequences were anything but. In one instant I managed to hurt someone whom I care about very deeply. She did not deserve or cause such indiscretions on my part and for that momentary lapse in judgment I am truly sorry.

It is with that disclaimer that I have chosen to repost the original entry for reasons that I will now expound upon. The actual reason why I have never deleted any post or censored myself is found in the incentive of detailing the events of my life in the first place. Someday I am going to be an old man whose only joy lies in the remembrance of past events and the occasional emotional elation that such memories elicit. I am going to spend my days reflecting on all the previous ones and wondering what impact my life truly had. Many men find that their memories fade or reconfigure over the passing years until one day when they seek to tarry over the days of their lives such memories only offer fleeting glimpses of highlights and harangues. So they claw at scraps of ancient recollections in an attempt to remember who they once were and hope someone, anyone will listen lest the memory of who they are fades away with each generation’s passing. I cannot be that man. I decided a long time ago to keep a record of my life so that even if no one else knew him, I could always look back and remember the man I once was. Despite its inherent futility and possible blights of hubris, I simply don’t want to be forgotten.

We all fade away. Some people manage to slow time’s eraser to a crawl, but none can halt its sinister task completely. If I am to remain true to my past, however, I must be able to record it accurately. I cannot remove the painful parts when they form a unique part of the tapestry of life that is as essential as any triumph. To do otherwise is a death of sorts. To do otherwise is to be forgotten.

Name ThisTune

Several years ago a game show used to come on television called "Name That Tune". In the game, contestants would try to guess the name of a song after listening to just a few notes of it being played. The object of the game was to identify the song in as few notes as possible with each contestant bidding on how many notes it would take them to "name that tune". The setup would go something like this:


Host: This song climbed all the way to number one in the charts in 1955, but don't let its melody "haunt" you while you try to recall its title.

Contestant 1: I can name that tune in seven notes.

Contestant 2: Well, I can name that tune in five notes.

Contestant 1: I bet I can name that tune in four notes.

Contestant 2: Name that tune!

At this point the band would strike up and play only four notes of the song Contestant 1 would have to guess. Given only the brief musical assistance and the accompanying clue, the contestant would then try to determine what tune he had just heard. It was a fun, lighthearted game to watch and half the excitement was in trying to play along with the contestants at home. Although I enjoyed seeing if I could also name that tune at home, this wasn't the most interesting part of the show for me however. My fascination was with the occasional savant-like talents some contestants acquired that enabled them to name fairly obscure musical scores in as little as two or three notes. It was as if their knowledge and intuition of music was so vast that they could easily extrapolate an entire ballad from just a few simple notes. I often wondered how anyone could possess such an immense musical library that undoubtedly took a lifetime to attain. My answer came when I noticed that the contestants who fared the best were often times the ones who appeared to be having the most fun. They were smiling, laughing, and genuinely enjoying themselves all while effortlessly naming song after song with the apparent ease of any virtuoso. And that's when I realized why. To these people, this game was not about how much money they won or a fleeting fifteen minutes of fame. Their reward was something else...it was the music. They loved music so much that simply being around it, being a part of it was enough. It was because they cared so much about music that they were able to attentively hear and understand its nuances when no one else could.

The relationships we have with certain people are like that. Sometimes when we care enough about someone and spend enough time with them we find that we are attuned to parts of them that no one else even notices. Where others might overlook a subtle glance or deft remark, a carefully tuned ear embraces such nuances and relishes in the understanding of things that often go unsaid, but never overlooked. When we spend enough time with someone our perception of that person changes. Where once we saw only a desire to travel and a love of music, we now see a yearning for freedom and a blossoming creativity that fills the soul. Her words become a novel and her face a canvas upon which no great artist could ever have imparted such interpretation. Yet you understand it all. You understand this woman because in your heart you know that you are just like her. And what's more, you know that you still love her. That you will always love her. Despite the years, the distance, and even the betrayal you know that a part of this woman will never leave you...and a part of you will never come back.

Some would say that such folly is but fodder for the poets, while others that it was only ever a fool's hope, but the intuition upon which I have come to rely beckons otherwise. Your face was one that I had not seen in four years and had no expectation of ever witnessing again. Eventually I accepted that and moved on. But I cannot deny that you sought me out this time for reasons that are known only to you. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was surprise that our paths have wandered so close together once again. Whatever the reason, this is as brazen as I dare to venture without some measure of reciprocation clarifying your intentions. You told me to completely forget about you and I have been faithful to that request. But truthfully I still care about you, I have always cared about you. And if my words should fall on deaf ears, if they are simply misguided by a hope that was mistakenly rekindled, then I will harbor no animosity and will release my sentiments just as quietly as they arrived.

My last letter you carried across the Atlantic before opening it in a London dorm, yet this note has far greater distances to bridge. I hope it finds you, and finds you well.

The tune was Unchained Melody.