I’ve had to reinvent myself lots of times. The first was when I left the safety of home to enter school, with its variable authority figures, and needed to learn to socialize with others. Leaving a tiny high school and going to college far from home was challenging. Graduating, I had to learn the professional role of pharmacist. And finishing medical school, I had to make myself into a doctor. After a full career in medicine, I did another do-over back into pharmacy for another ten years.

My previous personal changes began abruptly, the day I entered a new domain. During my career I felt like Harry Nash, from Kurt Vonnegut’s short story: Who Am I This Time. Harry is an extremely shy clerk in a small town hardware store who prefers working in the stock room to meeting the public.

He regularly steals the show in the local amateur theater’s productions. On stage, Harry completely becomes the person whose role he’s playing. After the final curtain falls he bolts out the stage door and retreats to the safety of the store’s back room.

With no further significant professional roles to play, I’ve spent the past year letting the dust settle from living in the public square of health-care commerce. From now on, my personal development will be the discovering and unfolding of me.

For now I’m refining and expanding the interest in writing I’ve been nurturing for over a decade. Almost from the beginning, an English-writing professor has been helping me hone the craft. I have a regular newspaper column and accumulated a list of a couple of dozen people I e-mail articles to. I’ve also written magazine articles and done professional health-related writing.

In the past I’ve disciplined myself to articles with 600 words. Sometimes it’s been challenging juggling a semi-retired personal life, work schedules and publication deadlines. Occasionally, I’ve selected or limited the scope of my topics based on time pressures and my self-imposed word limit.

From now on, I’m going to write however many words I need to get my point across, hopefully without boring readers or leaving them wondering what I meant to say.

And I’m expanding my writing interests to the web-based realm of thoughts and ideas. For some time, Karin Haggard, a daughter-in-law who is an artist and graphic designer has been after me to set up a website/blog to make my writing available to a wider audience.

About six months ago I decided to give it a try. I call the blog A Diary of Aging. The website is rifey-04.ru. Readers can sign up to receive free postings/articles and leave comments.

I’m curious to see if strangers find what I have to say interesting and helpful.

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Every new day seemed like the last. As afternoon shadows lengthened, a pall began descending over me and I started dreading another sleepless night. I was broken down and disconnected from myself, preoccupied with suffering, and barely able to engage in daily activities.

With therapy, I eventually came to understand that my problem went beyond being sleepless following the death of a relationship. I needed to wake up to how disastrously I’d been neglecting my spiritual life – my spiritual being.

With a strong sense of social responsibility, I’d assumed a role of human doer, relentlessly working to make a better society. I was recently reminded of that as I paused to watch ants scurrying and from their ant-hill nest along a sidewalk crack. I’d been like an ant, doing my part for the community.

But human beings are more than ants. I relearned, remembered, that we’re composites of doing and being creatures. Healthy, satisfying human lives require nurturing both physical and spiritual parts. By the time therapy ended I’d begun putting life’s pieces back together, sleeping better, and doing a variety of things to care for my spiritual self – my soul. I would stare at birds at our feeders, listen to classical music and daydream, and sometimes wander aimlessly on a street. Just being.

The valuable insomnia I’m talking about is the kind that occasionally catches me by surprise nowadays. It’s the kind where I go to bed tired and don’t go to sleep. Or I sleep soundly for awhile, then awaken and stay awake.

If there’s nothing on my mind, I lie quietly, resting until sleep naturally comes.  Once or twice a year I decide I wasn’t tired after all, get up, and read. Sometimes an unresolved problem pops into my mind. When that happens I take time to thoroughly examine it. Once – without going over and over the same thoughts.

Now and then that’s enough. I discover a different way of looking at things and decide that what I thought was a dilemma really isn’t. But if the issue isn’t settled, I decide that’s the best I can do for the moment, resolve to revisit it during the daytime, and put it out of my mind.

An uncluttered mind luxuriates in the silence of darkness. It allows experiences to drift in and out, like miniscule waves lapping against the shore. It permits novel ideas and random thoughts, feelings and fantasies to emerge from the ever-awake soul.

And it enjoys natural background sounds like rain or distant thunder, chirping frogs, hooting owls, yipping coyotes and unidentifiable nighttime critters making sounds as they go about the business of living their lives. I’m comforted by the sounds of approaching and departing trains.

Occasional episodes of insomnia provide me with opportunities for performing routine maintenance on life’s problems while nourishing the soul. They’re ‘icing for the cake.’

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There was nothing bewitching about our simple, strife-free and nurturing home in the flat over Dad’s downtown barber shop.

And Richmond has no natural beauty. No waterway. No exploitable resources. It’s unusual in that nearly everybody lives on or within a stone’s throw of Main Street. It evolved as four settlements, established less than a century before I was born, gradually merged into one. The settlements developed along a trail running two miles north from the Gratiot Military Pike, connecting forts in Detroit and present day Port Huron.

Today the City of Richmond has three sections, half-a-mile apart, and three business districts: Muttonville, at the junction of Main Street (M19) and Gratiot; Lenox, where the Detroit-Port Huron rail line crosses Main; and Richmond, the northern-most part, near the earliest settlement.

Hoping to discover the source of our mystique and whether it’s still there, I arranged to spend a day with an old friend, Dale Quick, a lifelong Richmond resident and second generation volunteer fireman who’s married to a Richmond girl.

Driving into town, things looked as they did in 1951. After lunch in a restaurant I remember, we drove around town.

The town’s size is no larger than in my day, but it has more than three times as many residents: 5,000. The gap between Muttonville and Lenox is filled with businesses. Two farms adjacent to Main, one on either end of town, have been turned into housing tracts and apartments, with immature trees and few sidewalks. Main Street, the only practical way into and through town and between the shopping areas, has three traffic lights to manage the sometimes bumper-to-bumper traffic.

During our conversation, Dale told me that the town has become a bedroom community. He rings the Salvation Army kettle bell at Christmastime and sees fewer than a dozen people he knows.

The self-contained, small farm community we grew up in exists only in our treasured memories. There’s nothing obviously mystical there now.

Growing up, I was often bored. We didn’t have a yard. Only one other kid lived downtown. There was no pool, summer sports or recreation programs. A one-week Vacation Bible School was our only available activity.

With little else to do, I used to hang around the barber shop, where I learned the art of listening and talking with adults. And from jobs shoveling snow, stocking shelves in the Kroger store two doors away, stuffing jelly donuts in the bakery, peddling papers, delivering milk, and mail at Christmastime, I knew everyone in Lenox.

With 175 in the high school, there were lots of opportunities for exploring activities: three sports, band, vocal music, drama, and the school newspaper and year book. I did them all and came to believe that I could do anything I wanted. All I had to do was try something to see if I liked it.

I didn’t know the meaning of failure. If I didn’t like or couldn’t do something, I’d move on and try something else.

And society was very different then. There was a strong sense of community and shared destiny after recovering from the Depression and surviving WWII. It seemed like we were on the way to making America’s dreams come true.

It’s the alchemy of family, time and place that endowed us with our traits of curiosity, self-confidence and optimism.

Leaving town I stopped at the cemetery, on the site of the original settler’s land grant, and wandered among the headstones with familiar names. Pausing at my parent’s, I thanked them for moving to a small town before having children.

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Later, after a long day of sight-seeing and driving, we pulled off the interstate at the Ft. Payne, Alabama exit. With its usual assortment of chain motels and restaurants, the place resembled everywhere USA. But what about the “Fort” Payne, I wondered?

Driving through town on our way to Lookout Mountain and the Little River Canyon National Park the next day, it resembled a host of other places that lost their manufacturing base and population. But among the empty store fronts I noticed a Trail of Tears Museum. Open occasionally.

I learned that The Trail of Tears was an ethnic cleansing project following the Indian Removal Act of 1830. Forty-six thousand Native Americans were forcibly removed from their homelands in North Carolina, Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia and Florida and sent to Indian Territory – present day Oklahoma. Around a quarter died of disease, exposure and starvation on the trek.

Fort Payne, named for Captain John Payne, was one of thirty-one stockades, concentration camps, constructed in the Deep South to store Indians awaiting the big walk. Only a chimney remains today.

One way to look at the Trail of Tears is as a clearing away of one group of people with different colored skins and culture to make way for the development of a new, white culture based on enslaved dark-skinned Africans. It’s probable that some of the today’s suspicion and tension between the races follows from those times.

I was reminded of an experience I had visiting with Shawn, an Army Ranger, in Chicago’s Union Station. Our train was indefinitely delayed due to winter weather conditions. Military personnel, the elderly and families with small children were allowed to wait in a separate, more spacious but drafty and poorly heated area.

Shawn was an enigmatic, imposing figure with a facial tic. He was of medium height and obviously a body builder with bulging chest, shoulder and arm muscles. Except for his hands and face, every inch of his body is covered with tattoos. He periodically paced back and forth and alternated between wearing a sweatshirt and only a tee shirt. We barely kept warm with winter jackets.

I felt like I had to meet him, thank him for his work and see if we could strike up a conversation. We visited several times over six hours. He was friendly, soft spoken, and always called me “Sir.”

I learned he was 32 years old, a full blooded Indian and on his way to visit family on Walpole Island, a Canadian First Nation (Indian) reservation in the St. Clair River. He left Walpole as a teen to live with his mother in Michigan, dropped out of school, and joined the army. He’s been injured and wounded four times in Afghanistan and has shrapnel in his leg.

His tattoos are his autobiography. Each has a particular significance. The largest, a Masonic Lodge emblem, stands for his core values: Belief in God, brotherly love and charity/helping others in need. He said that some people glance, then shy away from him. He described being with a group where a server wasn’t able to make eye contact with him.

He trains younger soldiers now and is disgusted at their lack of respect. He’s leaving the Army when his tour is up and wants to work in law enforcement.

With what I learn about curiosities, I hope to understand my life better. But I don’t expect it to make sense of it.

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I’d enjoyed our trip to Disney a decade ago with another set of kids and grandkids, and wondered what it would be like this time. I was curious to see how I would handle five ten-hour days of almost constant activity, standing and walking up to seven miles a day. How would my age interfere?

Disney has a new, wireless wrist band system that improves efficiency of every aspect of the experience. For instance, up to three fast passes, appointments for rides and shows, can be made per day. In order to do and see what you want, and minimize waiting times, days can and must be carefully planned. My wife and daughter-in-law spent hours doing that. The planning worked out really well for all of us.

During the week, there were plenty of priceless moments of sharing the sheer joy of being alive with grandkids. One was when we were playing in the pool at our hotel-resort. I was throwing four-year-old Grant into the water for what seemed like the eleventy-ninth time – forward, backward and summersaults over and over again – he grinned, gave me a hug and told me I was the best grandpa.

On the last day I had a couple of hours to myself before the gang-lunch to aimlessly wander around, mingle in the crowd, and watch and listen to the nearly constant array of Disney street entertainers. I discovered that Disney is as much for the elderly as it is for the young.

I found how my age affected me the very first morning, on a clam-shell ride to view simulated wonders under the sea. The shell repeatedly rotated a quarter turn back and forth to view exhibits. When it came time to climb onto a belt moving the same speed as the ride, I lost my balance and went careening into a wall. Besides the terror of not knowing how or where I was going to end up, I skinned several knuckles on my left hand.

Several months ago I’d experienced a couple of weeks of vertigo and, while I no longer feel dizzy, I found that my brain’s circulation hasn’t fully recovered. I also hadn’t heeded my cardinal rule of carefully standing up and planning position changes to protect myself from stumbling. In the excitement of the moment, I’d reverted to automatic behavior, expecting my body to naturally adjust. It didn’t.

I went on several similar rides later and, when the time came to dismount, I’d make a plan. I’d stand carefully, step off with the right foot and use the left hand for support, then move the left foot out with right hand support, looking ahead in case I began losing my balance. Each time, my wife handed me my backpack once I was safely up and walking.

After the goodbyes, as the kids and grandkids were returning to two feet of snow and almost daily flurries in Michigan, we headed for a condo on the Gulf. Watching the surf, with a cold beer in my hand, my mellowness turned to fatigue. I had planned on reading and listening to the surf late into the night, but fell asleep around nine.

During the week, I thought I’d handled the long, busy days quite well. But after it was over I realized age had taken more out of me than I’d thought.

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Your half-bashful smile and twinkling eyes, and the way you sometimes flirtatiously wrinkle your brows when speaking is disarming. You have the heartiest laugh I’ve ever heard and, regardless of what you find funny, others can’t resist joining with you in a chorus of laughter.

But that’s merely window dressing for the soul and, while perhaps you are a bit unusual, that’s not enough to make you stand out in a crowd of charming four-year-olds. Your disposition is unique. Every morning I’ve been around you, you’ve awoken in a good mood. Your Mom and Dad say that’s your norm. When I asked how you can wake up so happy, you seemed surprised, as if it’s the only way you can be.

While we were walking down slushy, blustery streets in Chicago this winter, sometimes you were humming your own tune. You didn’t like getting snow in your boots, but when we left the elements you let it go at that.

Your patience is astounding. With sub-zero temperatures outside, we were stuck for six hours sitting in a cold, drafty boarding area of Union Station while pipes were being thawed on our train. You never complained as we chatted with strangers, read stories, ate snacks and endlessly played tic tac toe. When we finally left, well after your bedtime, you fell asleep almost immediately and didn’t budge until we got to East Lansing in the early predawn.

Your quick wit is legendary. My favorite story is your response when your mother once asked you to do a favor for her.  You said something like “Sure thing, princess” and did it.

Now you’ve left toddlerhood behind and are on the way to learning how to become a responsible, contented adult living in our topsy-turvy world. I feel privileged to be part of your life, and can’t know how long I’ll be here. So today I want to leave some special, warm thoughts and wishes for you.

May you perpetually protect your naturally contented soul. Life stands ready to grind everyone down, each in his own way. Adversity, like clouds and chill winds will surely darken your days. But like the sun that merely awaits an opportunity to warm and illuminate the day, your buoyant disposition will always be with you, ready to lift your spirits when the time comes.

Without remembering specifics, every day you’re storing memories of waking up happy and feeling loved. Revisit those memories often to tune up your soul. Allow their warmth to comfort you as you navigate through difficult times. My spirit will be smiling down on you.

As you grow and mature, may you continuously perfect your virtue of patience. It will be life’s most challenging obligation to yourself and the ones you love.  The serenity prayer – grant me grace to accept what can’t be changed, courage to change what can be changed, and wisdom to know the difference – is an empty platitude.

That kind of wisdom cannot be granted. It is earned through thoughtful trial and error during experience. Sometimes you can adapt your thoughts and beliefs to reality, and come to accept it as is. Sometimes you must extricate yourself from realities that threaten to destroy you and harm ones you love.

And may you learn to manage your quick wit. Some will consider it arrogance. Others will try to exploit it and you. Your wit, charm and disposition are merely accessories for developing a contented, responsible life for yourself and the betterment of mankind.

Godspeed.

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In its nineteen years, the Red Cedar Festival of Community Bands has brought together nearly 50 community ensembles for a day-long splurge of music-making that is free and open to the public. Bands pay registration fees and receive direct feedback from music clinicians. Musicians receive free master’s classes. The public receives virtually non-stop free music from nine to five.

Annually, more groups apply to perform than can be accepted. Preference is generally given to first-time applicants. There is no way of accurately measuring audiences’ sizes, but they’re growing. This year an estimated 500 people attended some of the performances.

Red Cedar clinicians are professors of music and highly ranked professional musicians who consult with bands and their directors. In mini rehearsals following performances, they give advice for improving balance between and within sections, expressiveness of playing, and bringing out nuances that composers intended in their music. The steady improvement in the quality of music at the Festival is a tribute to the consultants’ effectiveness.

Over the years, listening to the feedback from experts, it’s become obvious to me that bands are actually self-contained communities. Directors are ‘mayors’ and sections, like drums, trombones and clarinets are constituencies. Directors focus on bringing everyone together to cooperate and produce good music.

Another community, of musicians playing in the Red Cedar Festival ensembles, has developed as musicians and directors have gotten to know one another. Borrowing ideas, more bands have begun featuring soloists and programs are more diversified.

And each band is part of at least one larger community. For instance, the Midland Concert Band’s home is the Midland area. My band, The Meridian Community Band, resides in Meridian Township, which is part of the Greater Lansing Area. Other area bands include the Capital City Brass Band, Lansing Concert Band, and the Dewitt, Charlotte, Grand Ledge, and St Johns community bands.

Together, the bands in the Greater Lansing Area are a community of amateur musicians that support each other and provide opportunities for some musicians to play in more than one band. Bands occasionally hold joint concerts.

Since the Red Cedar Festival started, the Greater Lansing community has heightened its interest in band music. Four new community bands have formed and two new performing arts shells have been built. Today the area has a full, varied summer schedule of free amateur and professional musical entertainment.

Annually, the Red Cedar Festival receives a few thousand dollars in grant support to pay its clinicians. Thousands more of volunteer hours are invested in producing the Festival. There’s a huge return on investment in personal growth and satisfaction and community development.

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