June 4: Saint Metrophanes

Today was my daughter's last day of third grade. A couple of nights ago, she said to me, "Daddy, just think: in nine years I will be graduating from high school and leaving for college."

I told her to go to bed.

It's that time of year, though. Teenagers are graduating from high school; twenty-somethings are graduating from college. The world is shifting toward summer. I go for a walk every morning at about 5:30 with a friend. The route we travel takes us down a bike path through the woods. Two weeks ago, the path was dark and pretty colorless. Now, the sun is rising when we reach the forest, and everything is green. The air itself smells green, a mixture of mud, worms, leaves, grass, and dog crap. (The path is also popular with pet owners.) In a few weeks, summer will have set up camp, and our jaunt through the woods will be oppressive, full of dead, humid spaces that wind can't penetrate unless it's got the strength of a hurricane.

It's a season of change, rebirth. And if you haven't learned it by now from my blog, I'm not a big fan of change. I prefer to eat the same breakfast every morning (one egg, cooked for three minutes on thirty seconds on power-level three in the microwave; one pork sausage patty, cooked for one minute on full power). I set out my outfit for the next work day immediately when I get home at 5:30 in the evening. I won't continue with a complete run-down of my daily routines, but they are, for the most part, fairly regimented and designed to avoid anything that even smacks or surprise and spontaneity. I think the obsessive nature of my daily grind is the result of too many unpleasant and sudden changes in my my life's circumstances. For a while, the word "change" became synonymous with "detour down Highway Shitty Life." When someone tells me I need to embrace change, I want to tell them to take a bath with the nearest electrical appliance.

I asked my daughter on the way home from school if she was going to miss her third grade teacher. At the end of each of her school years, I find myself grieving the loss of her teacher the way I grieved Bill Clinton leaving the oval office for the last time and leaving Dubya in charge of things. Translation: it ain't pretty. My daughter considered my question for about three seconds before saying, "Yes, I will miss him. Can I spend the night at grandma's house?" I wasn't going to let her off that easily, so I asked her what she was going to miss most about her teacher. I wanted her to exhibit at least one of Kubler-Ross's five stages of grief.

She paused a little longer this time, and I knew I have tapped into her sense of loss. She sighed and said, "When can I get a cell phone?"

I'm such a glutton for punishment that this evening I even watched the graduation ceremony at my high school Alma mater. It was on local cable access, one up from the Weather Channel. I came in when the valedictorian was giving his speech, suffered through a choral rendition of Paul McCartney's "Blackbird" that made my ears bleed, and then watched each member of the class receive a diploma. Near the end of the roster of graduates was a kid I've known since he was an infant. My mouth literally dropped open when his name was called and he walked across the stage. I didn't feel old. I felt mummified.

That's why I hate this time of transition from spring to summer, third grade to fourth grade, high school to college, college to unemployment. It's the impermanence, the fragility of life, that's rubbed in my face over and over and over. I can't stand it.

Metrophanes. Not really a whiz banger of a saint for today. His biography is like one of those updates you read in alumni newsletters. "Metrophanes is divorced, works as a shift manager at Holiday Gas Station and has three children, etc." You get the idea. He's just not that interesting. I can't figure out what he did to deserve the title of "saint." He was bishop of Byzantium for twelve years. That's it. No miracles. No famines thwarted or lepers cured. No pagan armies defeated with spitballs, rubber bands, and prayer. Nothing that would make Metrophanes really popular at Byzantium Bishop High's 300th Class reunion. All the book says is that Metrophanes lived a decent and holy life.

When I graduated from high school, I was voted Most Likely to Succeed. I gave a speech at the ceremony because I was the salutatorian. I don't remember what I said, don't remember who our commencement speaker was, barely remember our class song ("Through the Years" by Kenny Rogers, I'm ashamed to say), and have no memory of our class colors or flower. What I remember is sitting there in my cap and gown, thinking, "I don't feel any different."

I don't know if I've lived up to my high school title. Success is a pretty slippery thing to define. Sometimes, it seems as though I've fallen down more often than I've won the race. When you get to the top of one hill, there just seems to be another, steeper hill to climb. I guess it's all about rolling with the punches, trying to live the best life you can in the face of whatever changes come your way. That's what Metrophanes did. Look where it got him.

And, according to my daughter, it's also about finally getting a cell phone of your very own.