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“At 46 one must be a miser; only have time for essentials.”
—Virginia Woolf

Today is August 24th. Why is that significant? It’s probably not to you. It is to me. I was born forty-six years ago this day.

Forty-six. It’s a number. To those ahead of me in years, it’s a young number. To those behind, it’s older, how old depends on how far back there you are. To me, well, it’s a bit far along on my journey of life. I’m not where I thought I’d be at this age. How many of us are, really, when we take stock and are honest? I don’t feel forty-six. But I don’t feel thirty-five, either.

Forty-six. I look back on the long and rugged road that has been my life to this point and wonder how I made it through some of the tough spots. It was anything but the “normal” path expected of me or that I envisioned growing up. I’ve traveled down through some vast valleys and over some very tall mountains and sailed some rough and choppy seas. And crossed some beautiful country, too.

Each decade, in retrospect, was a voyage of its own. And as each new stage phased in, the previous one phased out and with it, a great deal that I had known and cherished. So much, so many things had to be left behind. Willingly or unwillingly. The past echoes with them all. Relationships. Family. Friends. Traditions. Lifestyle. Stability. Habits. Locations. And always, mingled with the deep brooding sorrow of the losses, a wellspring flowed, however small, of hope and optimism for the future. Always tomor-row. Always next week. Next month. Next year. Always life, beautiful just because it was life. It still is, mostly.

And so, at forty-six, I take stock. Personal life: Holding on. Marriage: A shambles. Job: Good. Health and diet: Better than ever as an adult. Fitness: Better than ever. State of mind: Fluctuating. My faith: Lord I believe. Help me in my unbelief.

In the wreckage-strewn fog of recent events, I consider and weigh the circumstances now surrounding me. Once more, a new stage has begun. It has been set for some time, and the curtain rises. It reveals one more road to travel. One more fork on that road. Choose. To the right or to the left. And then, a thousand more choices, or none at all, which is in itself a choice. Forty-six and alone. Again. Like I’ve been for most of my life.

When I review the causes, they are many, and rooted in the long-term failures of myself and others. And I recognize and mourn the staggering, almost unfathomable cost in shattered lives and broken trust. Certainly beyond my current capacity to process or comprehend. Such a steep price, for so many. For those involved and the extended families. So much rage and pain. So much heartbreak. So much misunder-standing. So many choices. So many tears. So much loss. So much to let go. So many wounds that time will not heal. And yet, only one path beckons. Forward. Whatever that means to each of us.

Every life is laced with sorrow and loss and broken dreams. Circumstances vary from person to person. Each journey is distinct. Each destination, a choice.

In 1961, the year I was born, my parents and family had lived in the new community of Aylmer, Ontario for less than a decade. A diverse group of hardy souls from many different communities had made the trek and settled there, most with families. Peter and Martha Yoder. Peter and Anna Stoll. Homer and Rachel Graber. Abner and Katie Wagler. Levi and Elizabeth Slabaugh. Noah and Nancy Gashco. Nicky and Lucille Stoltzfus. Jake and Lydia Eicher. LeRoy and Ruth Marner. A few others that escape my memory or moved away before I was born. And my parents, David and Ida Mae Wagler. Many have now passed on. Of the original group, my parents are the only couple that still survives. Their hearts remain in the Aylmer community. It is their true home.

From that place, my father launched and nourished his life long dream of writing and publishing. The monthly magazine “Family Life” was his reach for the stars. He mort-gaged the farm (against my mother’s wishes) to finance the venture. Its success reached heights he could not have imagined and propelled him into the forefront as a defender and apologist for the Amish faith and lifestyle. He remains anchored in that faith today.

When my parents were my age, they had a family of eleven children. My father was in his fortieth year when I was born. That’s how I keep track of his age, add forty to my own. Mom was thirty-eight. She bore two more children after I was born, my sister Rhoda and my brother Nathan. After Nathan, she had one miscarriage. And then no more.

The people that comprised my world as a child are now scattered to the winds. Or have passed on. I think back on some of my earliest recollections and remember. The colors and the smells and the tastes. The characters, floating in and out of my mind through the fog of years, the parameters of that childish world, so provincial, so confined, yet so vivid and alive. And always, it seemed to me, as my awareness and imagination increased with age, that I was simply an observer, a chronicler, and not really a participant in that world.

I can tell you the story, I can sing you with words, I can soar you to the heights, I can lament to you a tale of lost time and past worlds. I can tell you of life’s culmination in suffering, knowledge and death; the plower plowing, the sower sowing and the reaper reaping. I can weigh the cost to the last tenth-ounce, a father’s angry and unspoken sorrow, a mother’s silent pain to the last teardrop, the unutterable heartbreak of a wounded child.

I can tell you of betrayal so deep it stabs to the core of the heart, of the foundation of years brushed aside like so much dust, of pain so keen it numbs the brain, of walking amid ruins enveloped by dust and ashes and fog and noise. I can tell you of doubts and fears and regrets that could haunt a man to his grave.

I can tell you the sound of thunder and rain in soggy fields and the sound of cornstalks crackling as they grow from black river bottom on a muggy summer night, of the pale shadows cast by the harvest moon over stubbled fields and shocks of grain. I can tell you the particular slant and warmth of the summer sunlight and the feel and texture of the ancient and massive boulders beside our barn’s loft ramp. I can tell you the people and places and events that I have known and lived. I can tell you of life from the eyes of a wondering child, the wild stirring passions of an agonized youth, the hopeless quiet despair of a restless and deeply frustrated man.

I can tell you things that have never been told.

But, as I look back and reflect, I realize that the singer hasn’t sung, the chronicler hasn’t chronicled, the lamenter has internalized his lament, and joy was absent. And that cannot and will not stand.

“…..We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you, and ye have not lamented.” Matthew 11:17

The gifts we have will disappear if not honed and used, and I have not used my talents for far too long. For many years, I could not find my voice. But the words are there, inside, where they’ve always been. They may be a bit rough and uncut at times. The tune may be flat in spots and the melody dissonant.

But the voice is forming. It’s not too late.

I will move forward. The voice is forming.

And it will sing.

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Some thoughts on the Michael Vick situation. I’m no fan of Mr. Vick. He’s not my type of quarterback; he runs too much and consequently gets hurt almost every year. He’s arrogant and uncouth. But my personal preferences of playing style or dislike of him as a person have little bearing on my perspective of his legal troubles. He will plead guilty to illegal dog fighting and will likely spend a number of months in jail. Something about the whole fiasco still smells wrong to me. I’m not suggesting he was railroaded, but I am strongly suspicious that someone, somewhere was out to get him and ruin his career.

The blabbermouth sports press is in overload and gleefully spouting a gooey mass of sanctimonious bile. Blood is on the streets, and they are lapping it up. I’m not defend-ing dog fighting or the killing of dogs. But I think we need to put it in perspective. A hundred years ago, dog fighting was a popular and legal sport. Abortion was illegal. Today dog fighting is outlawed, and 4000 babies are ripped from their mothers’ wombs every day. Michael Vick would be less vilified had he killed his girlfriend or even his own mother. He could have financed a thousand abortions and no one would blink an eye. He is accused of killing dogs and the whole world is scrambling in a mad rush to crucify him. Something ain’t right.

My extended family has congregated to the Donalds, SC area for the wedding of my niece Rhoda Marner and Ryan Miller on Saturday, Aug. 25th. I decided not to attend, although my heart is with them and I wish them all the best. I’m sure my brother-in-law and sister, Ray and Maggie Marner, will be gracious hosts and extend a sincere welcome to all who attend. Ryan and Rhoda will live in his home community in Delaware, so I’m sure we’ll get to see them around here occasionally.

Ryan Miller and Rhoda Marner
Mr. and Mrs. Miller as of Aug. 25, 2007

Special thanks to Rhoda (my sister) Yutzy for the box of birthday tarts. My favorite.

Also thanks to sister Maggie for the box of assorted goodies. How did you find the time with the wedding coming up?

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“Did you ever see the customers in health-food stores?
They are pale, skinny people who look half dead. In a
steak house, you see robust, ruddy people. They’re
dying, of course, but they look terrific.”
—Bill Cosby

When I was a child, we used to make fun of “Organic” people, because of their insist-ence that naturally grown foods were healthier (I know, I know, it was uncouth and we were brats, so save it). The ones I remember were usually thin and wan and reeked of garlic and ate lots of nuts and other legumes. Meanwhile, we were scarfing down large amounts of starchy potatoes, noodles, meat and homemade white bread. But now, as an adult, the organic concept makes a lot of sense to me. I try to eat healthy, salads and such, with occasional splurging on anything I like (especially ice cream). I have now taken Superfood (see Links Page) daily for more than two years and don’t know what I would do without it. I also take a variety of daily vitamins and have for a number of years.

I believe today that there is a natural cure for almost any illness, including most cancers. I don’t know for sure, but I believe if I were diagnosed with a serious disease, I would seek a natural approach to healing first. But the holistic approach (Holistic medicine attempts to treat both the mind and the body. Dictionary.com), once one digs deep into it, is riddled with a vast array of New Age spiritualism, mumbo jumbo and snake oil. One has to sift through a maze of theories and claims and decide what is legit and what is not, what is helpful and what is useless (or dangerous), and whether the source is from darkness or from light.

A good friend of mine from the Bob Jones years in South Carolina, Elizabeth, worked in the holistic healing field after her graduation. She once told me she was leaving her then-current job because her boss, a lady, was openly calling her Spirit Guide, a demon named in the Bible, onto the premises where she worked. Elizabeth was completely freaked out. And got out.

Some months ago, I found an advertisement for “Celebration of Life!,” a Holistic expo and conference in York, PA, and decided to attend. The event was scheduled for this past Saturday, August 11th. I arrived at about mid-morning, walked in and paid my $5 entry fee and received my bag of goodies. I began a slow tour around the perimeter, examining the booths without making eye contact so no over-eager vendor would assault me.

The place was busy. A lot of people. Eighty vendors. Exotic aromas from incense sticks and spices drifted through the air. A drum beat softly from somewhere in the middle of the building. A lot of people, and they all seemed to know why they were there. Many of the women were dressed in colorful, natural fabrics. Some men had long full beards. Back to the earth, Birkenstock people. Some looked peaceful. Some looked blissful. Some looked harried. And some just looked worn and tired.

Two items seemed to be in about every other booth. Magic stones and dragons. The stones were of all colors and types; one vender even offered “energized” stones purported to ward off evil from the wearer. Cost: around $30. The Shambhala Meditation Center booth had a metal pyramid set up. Clients paid to put on some kind of ear phones and several at a time sat on the sides of the pyramid. Lights flickered, and they seemed to be meditating profusely. Across the aisle, the Aura booth was doing a brisk business. Have you seen your Aura lately?, blared the sign. “No,” I thought to myself, “I haven’t. And don’t intend to.” Patrons sat before a computerized camera to have their photos taken. The picture when developed showed the colors of their aura. For $30 to $45, depending on the length of the session, they could sit and be consulted on the meaning of those colors.

Shambhala Meditation Center pyramid

Magic stones and masks

Palm reading session (client’s back to camera)

Tarot cards and palm reading booths abounded as well. Customers paid for and sat somberly for their readings. One of the busiest booths was the Energy Wellness table run by Amy Valazquez. The client would lie flat on his back while Amy made many gesticulations around and above his body. She would then sit beside the table and rub a stick around a brass bowl for some minutes. It made a humming sound. For complete harmony, I guess. The sessions lasted for a good fifteen minutes. The clients walked away unburdened, both of their bad vibes and a good chunk of change.

Amy Valazquez dispensing energy wellness

In another booth, Willow Earth, a female Native American seer, stood beside her caged white dove and held (eagle?) feathers to each side of her client’s head and chanted. Willow Earth claims to be able to see the future. I’ve always been curious about such claims. If you can see the future, why go to all the hassle of setting up a booth at some two-bit expo and charging a pittance to tell people theirs? Why not “see” next week’s winning lottery ticket? But then again, I suppose the Native American seers exist on a different platform of values and want to “help” others. For a fee, of course.

Willow Earth (with back to camera), Native American seer.
Cage holds a white dove.

I walked around and observed and tried to remain unobtrusive. I stopped at different booths and examined stones and trinkets. I wanted to ask questions as to the import-ance of stones and dragons, but decided not to call attention to myself by showing my ignorance. I was definitely an observer, a novice, a babe in the woods. In the middle of the building was a space with chairs for people to sit and rest. A blanket with a labyrinth pattern was spread out and taped to the floor. I sat and rested quite a bit and watched the people flow by. During one such sitting session, an attractive young woman approached and asked politely what time it was. I told her, then asked her to take a few pictures of me, using my camera. She obliged happily. I thanked her. She had a large dragon tattooed on the back of her left leg, just above the ankle. I thought briefly about asking her what the dragon signified, but figured she might expose me as a heretic. So I held my tongue.

Pictures taken by the dragon lady. Woman and child
behind me are walking the labyrinth.

Although I had my camera with me, I decided not to openly take pictures of the various booths. Instead, I surreptitiously snapped a few with my cell phone camera. The quality isn’t quite as good, but it beat the suspicious glances and protests that an open camera would have generated. It’s more exciting to sneak pictures anyway.

At a booth just outside the lecture room, Dr. Barry Helm was giving massages on a portable massage table. I watched. It looked very relaxing and beneficial, and I was tempted to sign up. With all the stress in my life lately, I could use a good massage. About that time, he had the client lie on his back on the table and placed one small rock on his (the client’s) forehead, one on the stomach and one by his feet. Then he made many fervent gesticulations above and around the client. He jabbed the air like a mad man. I decided not to avail myself of his services after all.

Soul Calling booth

Other booths included Signature Cell Healing, Numerology/Handwriting analysis, Soul Calling, Hypnotists, Angelic Connections and Alternative Therapies. I wondered about the “Angelic Connections.” Is there such a thing? Or something else posing as angels? What about soul calling? Snake oil or legit? Whose soul is called? Could I choose? I was disappointed that there were not more “natural foods” booths. Maybe one or two, and they were staffed by aggressive-looking persons, mostly women. I felt no urge to engage them.

I overheard some startling conversations. Two women discussed their previous lives. They talked openly, freely and believed it completely. I listened and tried not to look astonished. It struck me that most of the people attending (I saw one or two rednecks walking around forlornly and sympathized with them.) were in search of or believed they had found the secret of life. Yet all were aging. Many were elderly. All will die. And none will return in another life to walk this earth, despite their beliefs and deepest desires to do so.

A lot of the people walking around were thin, almost emaciated, and had the pasty, white unhealthy glow of the Vegan. Some, mostly female, had hard, set facial features, as if they were expecting to be challenged and/or rejected because of their lifestyles and beliefs. Or had dealt with such challenges and rejections in the past. In this place they didn’t have to worry; they were accepted. There is no question in my mind that I was mingling with people who belonged to covens. Wiccans and warlocks. I had conversations with three people, a rotund, jolly bearded man, the dragon lady who took my picture, and one of the ladies discussing her past life. Our conversations were not in-depth.

At around 2 o’clock, I decided I’d about had my five bucks’ worth. I did one more quick walk through the expo. The tempo had picked up a bit. The crowd was growing. The drumbeat in the middle of the building was joined by a second. The booths hum-med with activity and earnest consultations. The dragon lady sat in deep discussion with a psychic, the Rev. Corrie Mitleid, at the “Fire through Spirit” table. Maybe that’s why she’d asked me what time it was, so she could keep her appointment. A young monk was immersed in fervent conversation with a seeker at the Kalpa Bhadra Buddhist Center booth. The rotund jolly man wandered by and smiled at me. I smiled back and walked on toward the exit. And so I left them.

I believe there exists around us a spiritual dimension inhabited by beings we cannot imagine. I believe that world can be tapped and its powers harnessed to the desires of humans. Many of the vendors at the expo emphasized good things, such as diet and healthy lifestyles. Others were no doubt charlatans, hawking snake oil to their gullible customers. But some, I am convinced, were tapped into that spiritual world. What they had was real. They stood at the open gates and offered passage into a world I chose to leave unentered and unexplored.

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In the first year of our marriage, Ellen and I went shopping and bought a brand new vinyl couch at Unclaimed Freight. A very nice green couch with a hideaway bed. Several months ago a friend gave me a beautiful “furry” full-color New York Jets throw blanket. The blanket was proudly displayed on the couch back. It stayed there pretty much untouched for months until last week, when I decided to remove it. I blithely tugged on the blanket, but it strangely remained glued to the couch. Annoyed, I tugged harder. It finally dislodged with a ripping and tearing sound. Sadly, a good bit of the blanket remains attached to the couch in a thousand little “fringlies.” I was horrified. They won’t wash off, and they are immune to the lint brush. I suppose they will attach to any guests who might happen to sit on the couch in the coming months. I had no idea such a thing could happen. Who’da thunk it?

This week I have been battling a savage head cold. I get about one a year, sometimes less. I can’t figure out where I picked it up. Maybe at the Celebration of Life Expo.

Finally, I received a call this week from an out-of-state reader of this blog. He asked me if he was permitted to print out hard copies of my blog for some friends who didn’t have computer access. He didn’t know; he thought the copyright sign at the bottom perhaps prohibited him from doing so. I appreciated that he checked with me, but as far as I’m concerned, anyone is welcome to make hard copies of anything on this site. What you may not do is publish it elsewhere or reproduce it in any way without my permission.

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