Malinda's Table

I love this bit of parenting advice from the actor Tom Hanks.

Somewhere along the line, I figured out the only thing really, I think, eventually a parent can do is say, “I love you, there’s nothing you can do wrong, you cannot hurt my feelings.  I hope you will forgive me on occasion, and what do you need me to do?  You offer up that to them.  “I will do anything I can possibly do in order to keep you safe.” That’s it.  Offer that up and then just love them.

I once asked Jarrett if I was a good mother. He said, "I'm not in jail, am I?"  A low bar to be sure, but good enough. 

Whenever I consider complaining about being in my house for the past ten weeks, I remember that the Dalai Lama was forced into exile in India in 1959 from his home in Tibet, and Desmond Tutu was in prison in South Africa for twenty-seven years.  If they can write a book about joy, anybody can be happy. I'm reading their Book of Joy today and am somewhat surprised by the Dalai Llama's contention that "the purpose of life is to find happiness."  This is an enlightening concept given the misery in the world, and the cruelty and violence I'm seeing on TV this very moment in Minnesota.  It is a book about friendship and love between two men who have suffered greatly in life but have come to the realization that three factors have the greatest influence on increasing happiness: our ability to reframe our situation more positively, our ability to experience gratitude, and the choice to be kind and generous.  I love this from the book: "Wherever you have friends that's your country, and whenever you receive love, that's your home." 

I recently read the letter singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen sent to the grievously ill Marianne, the woman he loved and lived with on the Greek island of Hydra during the 60’s; the letter is perfect for its brevity.  

Dearest Marianne, I’m just a little behind you, close enough to take your hand.  This old body has given up, just as yours has too.  I’ve never forgotten your love and beauty.  But you know that.  I don’t have to say any more.  Safe travels old friend.  See you down the road.  Endless love and gratitude.  Your Leonard. 

Leonard Cohen died four months after Marianne.

One day I was teaching a class of thirty-seven on the subject of childhood identity.  The next I was home emailing my students to say they would never see me again, except by Zoom or Facetime.  The coronavirus had come to town, in this case, Philadelphia.  This brings home the influence of randomness in our lives, the subject of a book I'm reading by Leonard Mlodinow. The title comes from a mathematical term describing random motion, such as the paths molecules follow as they fly through the air colliding with other molecules.  This is similar to how virus molecules spread from person to person as we talk and cough while strolling around Whole Foods if we unknowingly have the virus and don't wear a mask. 

Most people don’t make much of an impact on the world, except to the family and friends who love them, but then there are others who educate us, and change the way we see things.  And when they leave the table forever, the world is a smaller place for them having gone.

Today I was thinking of the singer, musician, and actor Levon Helm because as I drove the forty-five minutes from my house to West Chester to see my grandchildren, I blasted the amazing Good Night Irene on my car radio.  It’s from the Live at the Palladium NYC New Year’s Eve 1977 album. Actually, it wasn’t exactly on my car radio; it came through it onto my blue- toothed hearing aids, which made it feel like Levon was sitting next to me in the car.  In case you don’t remember it, Levon played Loretta Lynn’s father in Coal Miner’s Daughter in 1980.  Before this, of course, he was the drummer for The Band.    I would have killed to attend a concert in his Woodstock barn, where he did his Midnight Rambles with great artists of the day.

Levon left the table in 2012 at the age of 71.  He died of throat cancer.  Bruce Springsteen said of him, “We get so used to hearing versions of the thing.  Levon is the thing.”  Once in your life, drive alone on a country road with your car windows open, playing Good Night Irene.  With or without hearing aids.