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| The bushes are on the right. |
By
j. Charles Dill
August five, two thousand and thirteen, broke crystal clear and cool. There had
been a long heat wave up until this morning. Redding, California, can be hot in
August. Arising early, my mountain bike began to call me.
At
just under sixty three years of age, I’ve got a few pills to take in the
morning. After this aggravating ritual, one that reminds me of my arthritis and
my age, I filled a water bottle and grabbed my cell phone. It’s about seven
miles up to the Shasta Dam, and much of it is uphill – significantly uphill. I
ride the uphill portion with my helmet off. Right next to my helmet that hangs
on my left handlebar is a black sock. My cell phone is in the sock. I don’t
really have anywhere else to put it.
I have a mental, or perhaps spiritual ritual that I perform while riding. Actually, I used to perform this
ritual back in my running days. When my knees “gave out” I began taking long
walks, and now that I have had to curtail my walking I still participate in
this same ritual while peddling my bike. It seems to get the endorphins going.
Some
might call it meditation, while others might call it prayer, but I think of it as
a little of both. I believe in a Supreme Being whom I call God. It does not matter if you believe in God, or if you are spiritual at all, everyone knows the concept. Years ago, when I would run alone, I began to speak to God. I figured, "Why not? Give it a try." It kept my mind focused on something while jogging.
After moving to Northern California, after my father’s
death, I began talking to my dad whom I missed very much. I just began talking,
out loud, to my dad, or God, or sometimes both. The nice thing about having a
concept of a perfect Supreme Being is that you cannot lie while you are talking.
You know that God knows everything, including the truth. So, I have literally stopped in the middle
of my sentences in the past, confessing a lie that I had told out loud. It’s
an amazing thing when you catch yourself lying. At first, you catch blatant lies.
But then you begin to catch the subtler lies, the cons that you play on your
own mind, that’s when things begin to get really fun. After this step in the
process, I began to detect my rationalizations, my reasoning for doing things
that I knew to be wrong. And this is key, for until you confront your
rationalizations, you continue to con yourself. You never grow spiritually. If a person really gets into this, you realize that you just can’t lie to God. This is one very big reason why I have chosen to
believe in a supreme being: it forces me to confront myself.
Perhaps an atheist has a method for this, but for me I'm not sure how I could have ever achieved this state of mind without my choosing to believe in a Supreme Being.
So here
I was on August fifth, pumping my bicycle uphill, talking to God and my dad. My
dad died when he was just under the age of seventy three years old, about
twenty years ago. I was with him, along with my mother and older brother, holding his hand when he took his last
breath. For about five years, because of the hurt, I was unable to see the death scene in my mind – I
immediately blocked it. I would even physically turn my head away. I felt as though I grieved for my father much more than was
mentally healthy, and I guess that is why I began talking to him during my exercise
regimens.
My
dad and I did not always enjoy a perfect relationship. He could be very brutal,
physically. The beatings lasted well into my mid teens. My dad could be a distant man, yet I always felt there was a hidden pain of his own that he carried with him. We were never really close
until the last six years of his life. I won’t go into the details of how this
special closeness came about, but it did. My dad and I played golf every Wednesday.
We had a standing tee-time of 9:23 AM. We played golf with two other gentlemen.
Of course, there were times that I was out of town working, but if there was
any way that I could make our golf appointments, any way at all, I would always
be there. My dad would usually pick me up at my house and the two of us would
ride together to the Chino golf course. There, we would meet the other two men.
My dad accepted me as a full adult equal. Over those six years, we were able to
“break through.” We talked about his youth, my youth, our troubles, our
regrets, and we really just became such great friends. These became some of the
most special years of my life.
During
the last year of my father’s life, I felt time speeding up. It seemed like the
amount of time he had left was always less than what his doctors were telling
us. During the last couple of months, I saw him just about every day. We talked
about death, missing each other, love and devotion. There was NOTHING left between us that needed saying. We got it all out there - everything.
On
June 7, 1993, at 9:25 PM, my dad passed from this world into the next. It was
then that my grieving, my utter despair began. A little over a year later, I
left Southern California. I moved to Cottonwood, Shasta County, California.
This is when I began talking to my dad during my exercise, whenever I was
alone.
Again, back to my bicycle ride up to Shasta Dam, here I was talking to my dad. Just a few short blocks from my house, the road turns to
wilderness. There are no houses, no buildings, just rolling hills for as far as
the eye can see. It is wilderness all the way to the dam and back. Occasionally
I might encounter another cyclist on the road, or a car might pass on its way
to the dam, but I’m usually all alone. I was talking to my dad about our golf
games. I told him how much I enjoyed those games. I told him about all the
trouble in my life now, family trouble, and I was honest. My brothers and I have had trouble between us, and I have taken over as my mother's lawful caretaker. Things haven't gone smoothly, and I really just felt like I had to let my dad know that I was HONESTLY doing my best. I admitted to mistakes, and recommitted myself to handling the family affairs in a way that would make my dad proud. I had learned never
to lie when talking to someone on the other side, especially if God might be listening in. But mostly I just wanted my father's approval I guess. I so wished for that.
I
normally do not stop during my climb. I like to make it all the way to the top
without stopping, but something caught my eye by the side of the road.
Something white, under some bushes, just off the shoulder in the gravel. I pulled up,
slowed down, and stopped my bike. There were actually two bushes less than six feet
apart. Each bush was likewise less than three feet from the edge of the road.
There, lying on the gravel next to the side of the road, one right under each
bush, were two perfectly new shinny white golf balls. They were both the same
brand. I picked them up and examined them. Of course, you can imagine what I was thinking. They were spotless white, not the
slightest scratch on them. I held them for a while, and then I put them into my
sock with my cell phone. There was nothing else on the side of the road,
not so much as a discarded gum wrapper - nothing. Near the spot, there was a beautiful view of
the valley below, a cool light breeze that seemed to smile at me, and then I
smiled back. It was like a comforting, understanding embrace.
I
jumped back on my mountain bike and continued my climb to the summit, and then
down to the dam. Now that I am home both golf balls sit together inside a
display case with my family mementos. How could I possibly have a bad day after that?
How could my heart not be filled with joy? Skeptical? Anyone reading this might
be. Coincidence? Perhaps. But the spirit within me wants to believe otherwise.
I believe that more of life is choice than we may want to believe. One of my favorite lines from a Ray Wylie Hubbard song is, "Some get spiritual 'cause they see the light, and some 'cause they feel the heat." But for me, it's just about choice, one not based on anything scientific at all. Too often, we are led to the pragmatic view of things, the scientific view, when a spiritual perspective might be more comforting. What's wrong with comfort?
You have probably already detected the choice I made about my experience finding the two identical brand new golf balls by the side of the road.
Thanks
Dad. Save a tee-time for me.
Copyright © 2013 j. Charles Dill
