I cried deeper over the death of Babe Ruth than when my own father died. Now, the "Babe" died six years before I was born — I never met the man. But when historic footage of Babe Ruth's 1948 funeral aired on my PBS channel, I cried heartily. And when my Siamese cat, Ginseng, succumbed to illness 10 years ago, I was inconsolable. But when my father died in 1994, I was merely sad and did not cry me a river.So what is wrong with me?! Quick — to the therapist, please!The above events are true and I have spent hours analyzing them. Get a life, you say? Well, that's just what I'm trying to do. Despite my own very eclectic and eventful existence, questions linger as to why memories of my past are more potent than significant experiences of the present. My long-time therapist has fancy terms for this condition, but she hasn't shared them with me yet. She wisely allows me to grope in the dark for answers.One answer I stumbled upon recently reveals that Dad's death represented the end of 82 years of volcanic literary production; the end of a full life.Entertained his grandchildren. Had old age knee surgery. Grayed beyond his temples. He lived a long and superlative existence. By contrast, the memory of the unconditional love of Ginseng or the reminder that my childhood baseball hero is long dead, stirs any repressed desires to be a child again, when life was simpler, safer, surer. When I saw the Babe on TV lying in state, I was moved to recall my youth and how it hurt less than adulthood. But there is no urgency to feel equal pain for a father's long life well lived.Well, that's my take on it. I don't have to feel guilty about whose death deserves more tears. There is more to that iceberg, of course, and it is my life's work to grope in the dark for answers.My reality at this moment is that I am trying to write a column here that will persuade a newspaper editor to take me. I've been a columnist my entire life, but only now feel I've groped in the dark long enough to make my words meaningful. (I did write a column for a weekly paper 25 years ago when the iceberg was so-o-o much smaller and less distinguishable!) But it has taken me six months from when I first decided to pursue column writing again to actually sit down and write one! And it was the fear of failure that delayed me. Fear of the paper rejecting me. Fear that you wouldn't appreciate my musings. Fear that the one activity I enjoy and have succeeded at will fail me — and whatever I choose next will not be as rewarding. And there is a startling fear that if I succeed and enjoy it, I will one day upon retirement miss these good old days. (Hey, I told you I needed a therapist!)The precise moment I finally decided to write this column was prompted by the realization that writing is my therapy; that a life of writing columns could provide a lifetime of healthy emotional exercise. That is how I came to accept displaying more emotion to a video tape of Babe Ruth's funeral than to the sight of my father's wooden casket in the dark ground — I started writing this column and the normality of my emotions was realized. Writing this is how I came to learn that it is normal to not always appear "normal."Now, if you will excuse me, my therapist in California is expecting a call for my monthly iceberg expedition.
