Hey, the Pope is here this week.  Did you hear?  Sounds like his crowds are just ‘yuuge.  He’s pretty much taken over all the networks.  They all run these hours-long shows with the same name:  “Pope Francis in America.”  Even Al-Jazeera.  But he’s talking so softly, and has that accent that can be difficult to understand.  Sometimes he insists on speaking Spanish.  How’s he going to compete in this time when we all shout at each other?

I have to admit, I was hoping he’d rip about 535 new ones when he addressed Congress.  But he didn’t.  Of course this gentle man would never do that.  Instead, he lifted them up.  He talked about inclusion and how we are all immigrants and life and the environment.  He told them they could do the job – that WE can do the job.  He didn’t call them out for all the times they punted on opportunities to do the right thing, to help people in need.  Even when he was directive about things like getting rid of the death penalty, his message was fundamentally Christian:  repentance and salvation.  He charged us all with our human obligation to help others.  Don’t keep score, just do it.

He’s still here, and a lot of us are basking in that Pope aura.  The crowds are testament to that.  I think we all needed a good dose of hope and joy.  Hold the cynicism, please.

I saw that Donald Trump had trouble filling a hotel ballroom yesterday.  He was booed today, too.

We would all like to blame someone. We prefer that it be somebody else. It relieves pressure when things are going bad. They need fixing, not us. Perhaps it is part of our wiring as human beings because it is everywhere. Even petty arguments often start and end by trying to assign blame. In politics, it is poison.

This attitude allows us to avoid change, which is always difficult. It’s uncomfortable and requires a whole new set of habits. When group-think comes into play, it’s pretty safe to say that resistance to change is pretty thick. So we shift the blame to someone else: immigrants (legal and otherwise), African-Americans, Hispanics, Gays, or Jews. This has been a rallying cry for wild-eyed fanatics and cold, calculating despots alike. So many ascents to power were fueled by the pogroms and the corpses left behind. Hutu/Tutsi, Nazi/Jew, Serb/Bosniak, and so on. And when the dust settled, the winning populations were never better off. Nothing changed. They never solved the systemic problems. But the tyrant got power, and that was all that mattered to that “administration.”

Unless you are a Native American, you and your lineage were once “them.” They’ve all taken a turn in the barrel getting shot. Quakers, Irish, African Americans, Poles, the list is long. They were called out as the reason for hard times. The logic is structurally flawed. These people were almost always at the low end of the totem pole. They didn’t influence the decisions by leaders which brought about the crises. But at least the strident had someone to blame.

Now it’s Hispanics’ turn. As I listen to the leading Republican contender, he might make me believe that these people caused the great recession of 2008, the low wages that cripple hard-working people, and maybe even global warming. It’s quite convenient. But it allows the policies of the oligarchs, strong-arm lobbyers, billionaire election buyers and sycophants to continue unchecked. They can continue doing the same things to this country. It’s not their fault. It’s Them who caused it.

I love the diversity of this country. I’ve been to places in the world where ethnic purity was paramount, and even a trace of “others’” blood in your family tree was a source of shame. We are different, even if some of us can’t accept it. I’m not so sure about American exceptionalism, but if it exists, it’s because of how well we have (eventually) assimilated other cultures. My children are Irish-Italian-German-Nordic-Americans, and they are great.

We have problems in this country. Deporting millions will not change that, because they are not the problem. This policy will set us back by depriving us of the opportunity to embrace new cultures and weave their best into our fabric. Build your wall, if you will. Maybe it won’t be so awful. It might discourage people from making a trek through a desert that kills so many. But none of these will fix the problems caused by a privileged class that insulates themselves from reality and deflects blame so they can continue to exploit the rest of Us.

It’s been over 9 month since my return from Africa.  I still remember parts of it like yesterday.  Given my short term memory performance, that’s not as impressive as it sounds.  It is great to be back home with my wife, my kids (although they live on opposite coasts), and all the familiar, comfortable surroundings.  I’ve held back from blogging for reasons I don’t completely understand.  I guess I just felt that folks might not be as interested in the thoughts and views from an old American as those from a stranger in a strange land.

I was musing about this a few days ago when my visiting future daughter-in-law (“pre-wife,” as my son calls her) set me straight.  “Stop worrying about whether those stories will interest the readers.  Write for yourself.”  She’s right, of course.  There’s a sort of creative bug that gets inside when you start something like this.  I’ve missed it for a while.  I’ve tried to fill it with music, with only mild success.  Just as there is prose trying to work its way out of me, there are songs as well.  I have a great time writing the lyrics and they are not awful.  Putting together the music to fit is another story.  Simple melodies, ok.  But what about the chorus, bridge, guitar solo, and on and on?  I’ve heard writers talk about the “deafening silence of blank paper.”  That hasn’t been such an issue for me.  But what about the “deafening silence of silence?”  Sometimes the notes won’t come.  Or they come and have nowhere to go except … away.

But let’s not plunge into the abyss of creative constipation here.  I was not raised in a particularly musical family, although my mom made sure that all of us had opportunities. I drifted away from clarinet, oboe and bassoon when I went to a high school without a music program.  But I’ve been blessed with 2 musically gifted children and a love for almost all genres of music.  There are a few exceptions that I won’t call out here, however.  Telling an aficionado that you don’t like their tunes is tantamount to starting a religious war.  I know this.  I am a longtime fan of Yes, which the rest of my family really can’t stand.  On long car trips, I am rationed.  I wait until Linda is asleep in the seat beside me before switching on “Perpetual Change.”  That lasts until I get carried away with the Steve Howe guitar solo, crank it up and then pay for it for about 15 miles.

Since I can’t sit still at all, music really gets me twitching.  Since it’s all about the bass, I’d thump along with that.  Eventually that turned into “air bass.”  You need to picture an air guitarist gyrating all over the air stage, ripping air riffs and generally looking dumb.  Off in the background is the air bassist standing in the shadows driving the non-existent beat, but not looking quite as dumb.  Well, my son got pretty sick of that and informed me that he was going to buy me a bass for Christmas about 10 years ago.  “Buy me a bass” meant accompanying me to Guitar Center, giving me great advice on which one to get, and then letting me pay for it.  Fair enough.  Since it was a “present” from Sean, there wasn’t much Linda could do about it (we’ll get into “parent points” in some future post).  She’s now great about putting up with my practicing at all hours.  However, she draws the line when I start to talk like a bass nerd, which is really boring. If you’ve read this far, you probably know what she means.

So, I’m back.  Yes, I’m using this blog as a kind of creative Metamucil.  Whatever works.  I’ve started dozens of posts that I shelved because I didn’t want to bore, vex, or otherwise offend folks.  If I do any of those to you in the coming posts, please blame Mandy.

When Linda and I got married, we were kids.  She had just graduated college and I still had a year to go.  Sean came along about a year after.  We would joke about how cooking THE Thanksgiving dinner for guests meant we were now grown-ups.  We misjudged that.  Now I know that a real grown up act is having to bury your parents.

George Geisler, Linda’s dad, passed away a couple of days ago.  He was 92 and in failing health, but the end still came suddenly due to flu complications.  This year’s flu vaccine is clearly inadequate.  Now I understand how the pileup of years and declining quality of life makes a rapid passing a blessing for all.  He had made decisions years before about the kinds of treatment (or, more accurately, the lack thereof) that he wanted.

Now we are in the fog of funeral arrangements, death notices, Social Security, and Veterans paperwork that comes with passing.  Since we are basically on autopilot, the compassion of strangers is welcome at this point.  Amidst the numbness and tears, humor also helps us through this time.  Linda is, as usual, on top of things.  Her middle brother John had passed away about ten years ago and she helped Helen, her mom, through the bureaucracy.  Her oldest brother Jimmy died a few years ago and she helped there too.   When we were picking out the urn for him, Helen commented that after we spread their ashes, we could recycle the urns for her and George.  Linda wryly remarked that there would probably be a corkage fee.

George went through various political stances over the years, and ended as a staunch Republican.  He often felt obliged to help us overcome the error of our Democratic ways.  When a veteran passes, they give a flag, among other things, to the surviving spouse.  So at 3AM that morning, the gentleman at the desk is walking us through this stuff and pulls out a green form.  “If you fill this out and submit it, you will receive a letter signed by the President thanking you for his service.”  “The current President?” Linda asks with a twinkle in her eye.  Cautiously (Idaho is a very red state) he says, “well, you could wait.”  “Oooh no,” she replies, “I’m getting Obama to sign this one.”

Rest in peace George. You earned it.

George in his “Edward R. Murrow” Pose

Almost three months home and I’m finally getting to this.  The rapid fire events of homecoming, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year all share the blame.  In reality, though, I didn’t have a clue how to move from writing about the wonder of a totally different culture to a new interpretation of my old familiar haunts.  But I realize that the best way to hold on to some of the lessons Africans taught me is to write down these reflections, no matter how mundane.

I came back to warm welcomes from all.  Some were reluctant to shake my hand when they heard West Africa, but they got over it after a few weeks “quarantine.”  Linda visibly relaxed, her long solo stint of taking care of the millions of big and little things coming to an end.  My mother-in-law was relieved, and she again reminded me that people in the U.S. need help too.  She and George kept their promises that they wouldn’t die before I returned.  Seriously.  I made them promise.  The band was also glad, getting their bass player back at last – although I think they missed an opportunity to trade up during my absence.  While I was now “unplugged” and drifting a bit, I was back with the most important person in my life and we were reconnecting as we never had before.

Before I left, we talked a lot about how I would be changed by this whole experience.  I joked that Linda was also going to have some big changes from shouldering all the home load in my absence.  She covered everything with her usual attention to detail and eagerness to please.  She became more self-reliant and realized she could do it without me (scary).  She developed new processes and rules.  I came back to a familiar place but had to relearn a lot.  Most of them made sense and I quickly realized that maybe I shouldn’t comment on those I didn’t fully comprehend.   Fortunately, I got immediate feedback for behavior modification purposes.

I guess it’s human nature to try to contrast, draw parallels, and generally put what’s happening in the moment up against past experiences.  Now Africa is my backdrop for comparisons.  Roads, electricity, drinking fountains, racial attitudes – all of them made me reflect.  I looked at my standard of living in a somewhat guilty light.  Our perception of our condition is all relative.  Trying to compare our plight in the U.S. middle class with that of a middle class half a world away is fruitless.  The differences are distant and vast, yet at times we can feel that our situation here and now is the most unjust.  In Ghana, I could just look out the window and priorities would sort out in an instant.  Out there it is a constant struggle, and my role is to try to improve things, even if it’s just a little bit.  Here, it’s more complex.

I had the luxury of total focus in Africa.  Sure, I was working with 11 companies and constantly juggling a lot of balls, but there was one mission.  And when I wasn’t working on that, it was non-stop learning about culture, language, and people.  Back home, the multitude of different tasks and needs pulls me in so many different directions.  I miss that focus.

So now what?  Clearly, I’m a failure at retirement.  I only lasted about a year in that role before SEED came along and bailed me out.  I promised myself not to think too deeply about the future until mid-January.  That’s been a struggle.  But now I know why I’m drawn to this work.  It’s actually a very selfish reason.  This sort of cause takes me outside myself, damping self-judgment and the nasty self-talk I sometimes inflict on myself.   A place with so many people in genuine need makes it more straightforward to find an opportunity to make a difference.  Having the same impact in the U.S.  feels like a bigger challenge, but that just means I have to look a little harder.  While I want to go back and continue this work, for now I need to be here helping out.  My mother-in-law was right after all.

No more sweating in the rooftop gym. Now: aerobic snow shoveling

These last few weeks have been full of goodbyes. Our clients knew very early how long we would be here, but when I reminded them, the disappointment was clear.  We are no longer just coaches.  We are now part of their teams – their confidants and tormentors.  I feel more than a little guilty.  Nine months is enough time to form a deep bond, but not to transform a company.

SEED put on a nice party for Terry and me the day before departure. The CEOs stood up and gave testimonials.  They were lavish in their praise of us.  It was humbling.  The reality is that THEY did the work.  We ran up and down the sidelines, shouting a tip here, suggesting a play there.  But it’s their game.  We just coached a couple of periods.  It’s an honor that we get to be a tiny part of their success stories.

I came here to use my experience to mentor leaders and their companies. I’m the one who learned the most, however.  I learned that the poorest can be the most generous.  That Ghanaians apologize when YOU sneeze.  I understand that tribal pride runs deep, but when the Black Stars play the U.S. team, there is only one Ghana.  And why “Nyame Adom” (by the grace of God) is a standard response to “How are you?”

The best lesson has been patience. I learned that waiting until 3:00 for your 1:00 appointment to show up is only a small part.  It’s not just sitting in crazy traffic without road rage.  Patience is accepting that even when it stands still, time continuously changes everything.  It carries us all along, embraces us, and then discards us.  Sorrow and joy ebb and flow in our lives.  Happiness is a cool breeze that freshens and then drifts away.  I want to hold that clarity as I return my life in the U.S.  I need to have faith that the guy in the SUV will eventually notice the light has been green for a while.

“The day will still end.” – African Proverb

“The sun will come up tomorrow.” – Annie

Well, tomorrow the sun will come up for me in the U.S. I’ll have a dose of “reverse culture shock” and alienation, like the character in “Hurt Locker” returning home.  A week later, I’ll finish out my malaria medicine.  Two weeks after that, my friends will shake my hand again, assured that I don’t have Ebola.  But Ghana has gotten under my skin and changed me in ways I don’t yet understand.  I’m different – I just don’t know how.  I hope it lasts.

“Such a long, long time to be gone and a short time to be there.” – Phil Lesh

* "See you later, Africa"