I was about to make a grave error this evening and title this post, “Tragic Poetics: If I Wasn’t Laughing I’d Be Crying.” It would have been an appropriate title for the post that I was planning to make, but as I was gathering up more information and going through my usual links to read the latest posts from the bloggers I like to read, I discovered that Reginald Shepherd has died. Three days ago. And did I feel really stupid.

I’ve spent the last week in a bubble – actually, two weeks. The day after I made this very difficult decision, my wife and I received some heartbreaking news that spun our little world into a topsy-turvy whirlpool of chaos. This past week has been a huge adjustment as our grandchildren – we have three – came to live with us. This is the second time since I’ve been home from Iraq that we’ve had to take them in. The last time there was only two of them. I won’t spare any more details than that, but it’s been a hectic week for us as we’ve made adjustments to accommodate them.

I didn’t know Reginald Shepherd personally. I was only barely familiar with his poetry. But I liked reading his blog. He was always thoughtful. And it was Ron Silliman, from whom I learned the terrible news, who got me to thinking with this comment:

But what I appreciated most about Reginald Shepherd’s writing and his person was his ability, unparalleled in the world of letters, to address those with whom he disagreed about all else with great respect, dignity and humor. To argue with him was to participate in a debate at a very high level, in which you knew that he would give no ground unless he really felt persuaded by your point, and that he expected no less from you. He could be wrong, and I’m sure he felt the same way about me, but I never traded emails or comments in our various blogs that I did not enjoy, and that I did not come away from feeling less than enriched.

Not to turn this into anything self-centered, but Silliman’s comment is one that I’d hope someone might say about me, though I’m sure they never will. I am very aware of my temperament, a large part of which I inherited from my father. I have spent most of my life trying to overcome the self-defeating temper of a poor truck driver with a fast tongue. I’ve managed to control much of that part of me I loathe, but at times it has been at my own expense. If I’m not overreacting then I’m overcompensating. For a while I thought I might win out over that beast within then I found myself living in the desert for too long with an overabundance of near-perfect replicas of my father.

It occurred to me that life is short and fleeting. We are all within a moment’s notice of facing that grim ghost. And I know there are times that I have been much closer, such as the time when, while driving through the streets of Seattle, Washington, with some friends of mine and the breaks went out on my vehicle. It was raining and the breaks were wet therefore failing to engage as I was on a rather steep decline; I ended up driving straight off a T-crossing right into a ditch at about 50 mph and landed between two trees with about six inches of clearance on either side. That was perhaps my first brush with the mystery of split-second breathing.

Then there was the time when I jumped from a C-141 at 800 feet. Anyone familiar with static line parachuting knows that the exit technique from a C-141 and a C-130 are vastly different. Most of my jumps were from a C-130, but on this particular instance I jumped from a C-141 – right into the back draft of the jet stream. The laws of physics took control and the back draft sucked the air right from my chute. In my descent at a speed of 100 feet per second, I pulled my risers away from neck and lifted my head to see a parachute flapping around in the wind like an overzealous flag. Immediately, training kicked in, and I began pedaling my feet as if riding a bicycle. I unraveled my chute just in time to make a hasty parachute landing fall, one of the bumpiest rides of my life.

These two incidents – both noncombat, obviously – stand out in my mind as far more dangerous than anything I faced in Iraq. The closest call for me in Iraq was when I had a close encounter with a rocket to the tune of about 100 feet distance between us. Had I not been standing in a stone building at the time then I might have caught some of the shrapnel. Though I’ve never been anywhere near an earthquake, the rumble and shake from the impact is what I’d imagine it might be like.

So what does any of this have to do with Reginald Shepherd? Nothing. Except that I know that some day I, like he, and all of you, will be looking at this life from the other side of window. And I wonder what I will see.

According to Theosophy, there exists in the Mind of God what are called the Akashic records. These are universal records of human history, complete with macro and micro acts, accessible only by divine beings and humans with divine abilities. I’m not one of those, but if the legend is correct then when we all go to the great beyond we are confronted with our lives – both the good and the bad. I don’t know what Reginald Shepherd might see, but I do know what I’d see and I’m not altogether too proud of it.

I find myself these days considering how I might make the rest of my life more meaningful. Not in a religious sense, but in a real human one. Can I fashion myself to be more respectful and dignified, or am I stuck in this old temperamental rut? Only the records of time will tell, but since they don’t reflect future acts we’ll just have to wait and see. Meanwhile …

I will miss reading Shepherd’s thoughtful analyses and insights on his blog and at Harriet. I will make a point to read more of his poetry, and learn what I can from it. But I’m sure that’s not the best I can do.