Discussions With Arthur

I remember my discussions with Arthur started on a Thursday. I remember that he would always smile as I approached, the sun setting behind him, his fingers blackened with wet soil. I remember the soft smell of turned earth mixed with warm heat. It can’t always have been warm but that is what I remember. I remember the lilt of his voice, the timbre of his chuckle, and the staccato of his dismissals.

The only conversation I can remember clearly was the one we had on the last Thursday. I wish I had known it was our last conversation, I would remember it better. I still remember it now, as best I can, having spent the whole next day revisiting the memory to be sure it would stick. I know it has been tainted with time and the glossy perfection of hindsight. But still I return to the memory.

When I arrived the last Thursday it was no longer a meeting, it was tradition. I would arrive, park the car and by the time I made it to his backyard where he would tend his garden while we spoke, he would already be smiling and call ‘So what question have you got for me today?’

I always had a question. When we first spoke it was not a well-worn tradition and I believe we wasted quite a bit of time talking about how we each were and what we had been doing with our time. But as the years had passed we had simplified matters, realizing neither of us cared for each other’s day-to-day lives, and they didn’t change much anyway.

But by the time our tradition ended the pattern was immovable. He would call and I would answer. This time with the question, ‘How do you still care?’

In hindsight it was an unanswerable question and perhaps one that only proved I had not listened, evidenced by the fact that I cannot recall the content of most of our discussions but he answered me nonetheless.

‘What else could I do?’

This was often his way to ask questions of the question I had asked. I did once point this out to him and he said it was a choice, ‘I need to be sure I understand your question before I answer it. If I don’t understand your question what would be the good in sharing my opinion.’

I think of that often now. Whenever I am conversing, I find myself asking questions about them and what they want to know. I have found, as Arthur did, that if I do not clarify the question, I can not answer them. I am merely speaking for the sake of filling the void of silence. And often having a conversation in which the presence of the other person is to prevent the appearance of insanity if I was to speak aloud without them.

‘You could not care. You could have thrown in the towel and spent your days doing nothing.’ He smirked at this, wiping the back of his wrist across his forehead to remove perspiration, attempting and failing to prevent the transfer of dirt as it clung to his damp brow.

‘I challenge you to do nothing. It is quite impossible. You never can do nothing. You are always doing something. Or you are dead. The choice is only how you spend your time, and may I suggest you spend some time making tea.’ This was another part of our rhythm of movement. Now I had posed my question he would require some time to think. And so he would send me inside to gather our sustenance.

I boiled the water on his old gas stove, my gift of an electric kettle never made it to use, as I gathered the things we would need. He had an old china pot, covered with fine flowers, ornately crafted. I had once remarked on his floral tastes and he only smiled softly and said, ‘It was my wife’s, she’d kill me if I stopped using it.’

I found it amusing when he spoke like this of the woman he had loved. She had been gone almost twenty years but as far as he was concerned she was right around the corner and ready to tear his ear off if ever he deviated from the way of life they had found together.

I’d asked him once why he did not leave the home saturated in her memory. Did it not make him sad to be where he had once loved? He’d answered no and laughed at the idea in turn. ‘Maybe at first, I felt the absence of her loss. But only a short time, soon I would walk into the kitchen and feel her smiling, telling me I was late for breakfast with the sun streaming through the window into her hair and no actual rebuke present on her lips. I would enter the living room and see her reading, oblivious to the world she inhabited as she was presently not in it, but floating in her own mind. I live in the memory of the greatest way I have ever spent my time on this earth. Why would I leave that behind?’

I’d also once asked him why he did not seek a new companion for his golden years and this one wrought from him the saddest of expressions. ‘I know she would not mind, I know she would want me to be happy and tell me to share my oversized heart, but I never found anyone else I wanted to be in the company of so often. Even you, I can only stomach once a fortnight.’

And so it was the way. He would insult me only vaguely; seemingly perturbed by my deference to him and my insistence on spending time with him, if only on occasion. Over the years he stopped objecting out loud but every now and then he would tut and say ‘If only you knew the old man is not wise. Only old and full of stories you haven’t yet had the time to make.’

And so I returned to the garden, teapot on tray, and placed it on the small table between two chairs that rested on the pavers, offering a view of his garden with our backs to his house. He finished washing the dirt from under his nails with the tap bolted to the outside of his house and came to sit beside me.

‘You asked me while I still care?’ he posed tugging at his well-worn pants as he sat to his own comfort.

‘Yes I did, I wonder… you seem to still be so invested in life, and after everything you have been through I wonder why that is?’ I expanded my question knowing he would not answer and until he had in essence, too much information and the clearest understanding of what I posed.

‘And what is it you imagine I have been through?’ He asked clearly not fooled by the attempt to avoid his questions in return. I thought on this. I knew only pieces of his life, not his whole story. Not only because no one can ever truly know someone else’s story. Not only because the events of life do not match the journey we take inside ourselves. But also because only pieces of his path had ever been revealed to me.

I knew his wife had passed young, old enough to see her first grandchild but barely a few days more. And I had learned through small pieces that her passing had not been gentle but rather the pain you would not wish on an enemy.

I knew he had been to war, a topic he never shied away from but would only share in gory detail. ‘Do not romanticize the fights of power that send young men to their deaths.’ He’d once bellowed when I’d been too eager in my desire to know of his adventures on the battlefield.

I knew he’d lost his son and his daughter along with their partners who had been traveling together when the accident occurred. I knew he’d been deemed too old and unfit to raise his granddaughter and so she had passed into the care of his son in law’s sister.

I knew he’d had a career, although in what I cannot say as it was his least favorite topic. Only that he had worked so he could come home to a world he provided for those he loved.

To me, it sounded like a hard life, me who had two parents still alive and nauseatingly in love. With a wife and two children, in a job I loved, in a town, I called home, in a house that was larger than needed. Never having been in a fight, never having been in anything other than youthful heartbreak and the occasional misadventure in inconvenience.

I had pieced enough of his life together to realize that his journey was not a simple one. And I told him as much. I recounted the worst moments of the stories he had told me. I described the heartbreak I knew he has suffered time and time again. And then I posed my question again, and still, he answered, ‘What else could I do?’

This was frustrating, as it was not our usual pattern, my question was beyond clarified and he knew what I met and yet he did not expand upon his answer or provide me with another question on which to continue.

He did not tell me why he still rose in the morning, why he got out of bed, refined his appearance, and went about his life. I thought perhaps habit. It was a pattern that he knew. But I did not voice this opinion out loud. So I instead asked again. ‘But with everything you’ve suffered why would you still get out of bed, speak of this world as if it was heaven on earth, and constantly insist I make the most of each day?’

This was the regular tirade of his I knew well, that I should celebrate my life, daily. Be present to what was happening. Not let the stress and bother of my life derail me from recognizing the moments of pure joy that existed every moment. It was a speech I had heard so often it was as if a chant was now inside me. He did not even bother saying the words to me anymore. He would only ever quirk an eyebrow or smirk if I complained about an occurrence of my day-to-day life.

‘You, my dear child, have made the gravest of mistakes, one so many people make.’ He laughed at this. Not his usual gentle chuckle of amusement mixed with a dismissive headshake as he chortled at what he saw to be my lack of the grandeur picture. He laughed loudly.

He laughed so violently at first I thought him having a fit, for he was often overcome with a deep cough he paid no mind to but that affected me. He seemed to me, always a young man in spirit until his own breath ravaged him. Then I was all at once reminded that he was fading in years.

Once I was assured it was only humor overtaking his body I was incensed as I never had been before. He had never laughed at me like this in all the many discussions we had. And I had asked far more impertinent and irrelevant questions than this, and surely my summation of his life was not so incorrect as to deserve mockery. But he seemed to sense my distress and soon calmed himself as he turned to look at me.

This was not something he did, whenever we spoke with the warm ceramic mugs in our hands, he would speak to the trees, leaves, and grass around us, never to me. His eyes pierced me and I was thankful this was not our usual habit.

‘My dear child do not be angry and forgive me for laughing so. It was unkind but it is simply so strange to hear my life laid out as you did.’

‘But these are the stories you told me.’ I defended myself, my anguish at his jovial dismissal not completely abated.

‘It is not the facts you have gotten wrong. Merely the focus.’ He murmured as he returned his gaze to the garden to smile at the existence of nature itself.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked my confusion abating my censure as it occurred to me his statement was beyond my understanding.

‘I mean only that you can tell any story a hundred ways and you have told mine in the most painful possible.’

‘I did not mean to upset you.’ I responded quickly although I could hear no pain in his voice.

‘It is only you have been upset. I am greatly amused to see my life through your lens. It’s so different from my own. You see, you tell stories of my beloved departed wife, I only tell stories of our love. You mentioned the war I fought, I remember the great men I got to love and trust before I lost them to the disagreements of those who draw imaginary lines in the sand. You speak to me of the granddaughter I did not get to keep, and the children I do not get to see. I would tell stories of my Sunday afternoons with her and the many bedtime stories I told long before my children had grown to have their own. You ended with stories of my work, which was only something I did to earn the chance to do the rest. You told my story as if it was a tragedy.’

I ruminated on his words, readying myself to speak, and yet the moment did not present itself as I felt him beside me gathering his energy again. These long burst were not his usual way and so I was anxious for the next even as in hindsight I should have appreciated the time to digest his thoughts.

‘If my life had been as tragic as you told me, I suppose there would be a reason to despair. And I suppose it makes sense you would remember the most tragic moments of my existence, as that is what brains are predisposed to do. But I wonder if you remember the story of my teapot?’

‘It was your wife’s?’ I asked as my answer.

‘Why yes, it was but do you remember how we happened to come by owning such an item? I will tell you the story again because I can see you do not. My mother, her mother in law, had given her a teapot for our wedding and made such a fuss over how special it was having been made by such and such a person in such a such a place. The specifics never did stay with me.

‘And so she was to visit, and the exact day before, I dropped the gifted teapot, smashing it beyond repair in a moment of clumsy haste. The kind of gentle blindness that occurs when you’re not paying attention to your own life and actions for your mind is somewhere else. I expected my wife should have to be furious with me. It was a gift to her after all, but she burst into laughter proclaiming loud enough for the neighbors, ‘Thank god, that was the ugliest teapot I had ever seen. I hated that thing.’

‘I later learned this was a lie. She had adored the teapot she was given and had in fact considered it the most thoughtful gift she’d ever received and exactly to her tastes. But the next day she proceeded to the store with some money she had saved for something else and bought a new teapot, the one we drink out of today. And that afternoon she served my mother who made no mention that the pot was not the one she had gifted but rather thanked my wife for making her favorite biscuits.’

I did not respond, affected as I was by hearing him speak so vehemently and consistently when it was far more common for him only to ask questions, give short replies and occasionally expand but with no real emotional tenor in his voice. He stared at his garden unconcerned with my reception of his story but I feared I had missed the point, for what did an insipid teapot have to do with my question about his consistent care for the world at large and his own life when it seemed to me that all his challenges should have left him bereft of hope.

And so I played with the words in my head to try my question again, unsure of how to be any clearer, but desperate to communicate better so that he may understand me, and me him. But suddenly in a flash, I thought better than to restate what I was asking and instead posed to him a question as he had taught me to do. ‘Why did you tell me that story?’

He smiled at his garden but slowly turned his gaze to me, his sharp eyes missing no details as they floated across his surroundings to me only to beam with insight.

‘Why do you think I told you that story?’ He asked.

‘I do not know. It seems to me quite irrelevant. So you broke your wife’s teapot and your mother’s gift. So what. What does that have to do with caring?’ I could hear the petulance in my own voice and wondered if he would comment upon it but when he spoke his voice had returned to the rhythmic timbre that was in his nature.

‘Again you have focused on some rather strange details from my perspective. You have recounted the story as it happened but the events are not the experience. What I remember of this adventure is not the moment when the old teapot was broken upon the floor but the kindness of all of those involved.’

I stared at his vegetable garden which he tended each and every day and had an overwhelming desire to run to it and start pulling it apart. A vivid image flashed through my mind of what it would be like to tear from the ground one of his cabbages and kick it as hard as I could into the nature reserve that sat against his back fence. I was never pugilistic in nature and so the violence of my thoughts surprised me.

It felt rather as I imagine my young children had when they were in the fits of their tantrums. So full of frustration and confusion that I wanted to simply move with extreme energy until the feelings would subside for having been put in motion.

I had come here with a question and one I thought would have a simple answer. A part of me had expected that he would simply repeat his favorite few lines about a life well lived, or perhaps said, ‘I care because…’ and given me some clue as to how it was he continued to be so enthusiastic about this world. But instead, I felt tossed about in the tumultuous ebb and flow of his musings. And even as I tried to dissipate my irritation I found words springing through my lips.

‘If you do not have an answer I think it’s safe to assume it is because all your words about this world are simply that, words. And you in fact do not care and so you cannot answer me. And I was right in my assumption. The only reason you continue to go about your life is because it is a routine you don’t know how to break.’

Shocked as I was by my own outburst I turned to him in horror as I recollected the words I had spewed upon him. I should not have been surprised that he seemed unfazed and happily diverted by my tirade. After all, it was not the first time I had been overcome in his presence. In the early days, I had been prone to yelling my thoughts as if speaking them louder would make them better heard, he had never responded in equal measure as most of us would.

‘I can see you are intending to apologize and I must ask that you don’t. For I fear you will apologize for the wrong thing.’ He spoke so calmly I wanted to rage at him again for not having responded with the energy I was feeling.

‘What would be the right thing to apologize for?’ I demanded of him, annoyed that he was correct.

‘You may apologize for entering our discussion today with a preconceived notion of the outcome and presuppositions as to what our conversation would include. However, I would encourage you not to apologize for any emotions you experience or for sharing your thoughts.’ He concluded.

He let the moment sit and sipped his tea. This was not the first time I had heard this thought. He had reminded me many a time that opinions were to be shared but not represented as facts. He had expressed many times his concern over entering into any situation with an expected outcome.

The latter was one I had never thought a problem until he had explained that all expectations if not released were a war with what is real and thus always a detractor from the experience of life. But even as I understood this I found it hard to let go of what I wanted.

I wanted to speak again and explain my outburst, explain my frustration but even as I began to formulate the words I saw in my mind the way he would gently caress the air as he waved away any words I shared on the topic. And so I joined him in the moment.

Sitting in the silence that I so often found intolerable if only because it never seemed to bother him. I sipped my tea and looked upon the vista in front of us. I saw the collection of piled rocks that made up the walls of his garden. I saw the dance of the insects in the haze of the setting sun. I saw the many shades of green that inhabited his garden. And as I focused only on what I could see I found myself beginning to calm.

I heard the whistle of my own breath as it slid coolly through my nose returning warmer to the world with each exhale. I felt the chair beneath me where it made contact with my shoulders and pressed forwards my hips so that my legs extended out to the ground in front. As I focused on my being I found myself return to peace and let go of a breath that I was unaware of holding.

‘I believe I understand your question now.’ He stated as if no time, nor unpleasantness had passed and I found myself almost surprised by his appearance beside me, having been quite focused on myself. ‘You asked me why I cared, yes?’

‘Yes, that was my original question.’ I acknowledged.

‘You assumed then that there was a way in which one could not care, not spend their energy, do nothing? In fact, I believe I challenged you to do just that.’ He had at the start and so I simply nodded at him.

‘You see you missed the point. It was not why do I care. Everyone cares. Everyone devotes the energy of their life to something. The question is what do we devote it to? Or to ask it another way, what do we focus on. I challenge you, to consider the story you tell about the way you lived your life, and to get you started I will recount what I know. You love your job, where you live, your family, both those you were born to and those you created, yes?’ And again I nodded.

‘It seems to me that in your own life you have focused only on that which, brings you joy, which I can only commend. But you seem to be confused when I do the same and so I will leave you with one final question.’

And here came the last part of our tradition. He always left me with one final question. His statement to that effect merely meant he expected me to go inside and clear the tea tray while he collected his thoughts and so I did. Washing out the teapot with a confused reverence as I knew there was something special within the polished ceramic but as yet I had not glimpsed the magic he believed existed within it.

And then I returned to him, outside on what were undoubtedly uncomfortable chairs in which I had never felt more soothed in my entire life just moments ago, to find him pondering the clouds above and seemingly unaware of my return. And yet as I stared at him unaware I was drinking in his visage for the last time, he spoke to the heaven above but directed his words at me.

‘We are not able not to care. This is something I have learned. And so I do not answer your question with anything other than my own…’ Here he left a pause, I thought for dramatic effect but in the way he chewed his lip as his head stayed tilted at the sky, I realized he had in fact not yet found the words for the thought he wished to pose for my answer.

My gaze drifted to the trees he loved to stare at, to the soil he turned with his hands, to the old man I had known for many years who could still confuse me with a flash of his eyes. And all at once, I could tell he had found what he had let drift to the surface of his mind when his spine stiffened and his gaze dropped to me, his eyes seeing through me.

‘The question is, what will you choose to care about?’