Written by Gene Cashman lll

omeone once asked Woody Allen what he had faith in, “what do I have faith in?” he replied “I guess I have faith in the power of distraction...” In my own life the power of distraction pulls me under and tosses me about more deceptively than the strongest riptide at South Beach or Tybee. Every day I allow myself to be nearly drowned by the drone of distraction. All of this seemingly abstract imagery finds relevance, a foothold in reality, as I look back over the last five years of my life. As I peel back the onion and search through the layers of white noise and innumerable breaths forged daily by the march of time and responsibility, I find a road littered with distraction.

Some of the diversions are manufactured, some unexpected, some tragic. Over time, the small surges of distraction build up to an overwhelming crest of sentient, jarring emotion. So, here I am now, five years to the day, again treading my bare feet through the same open lawn on the same windswept bluff overlooking the same steady river where I first danced as a newly married man.

That day was a tipping point in my life, a cementing of love, innocence and providential understanding. Yet what I find as I stand in what could be the same footprints, is that I am no longer that young man filled with wonder and curiosity for the unknown, untethered by worry, free of encumbrances. As I feel the thick fescue between my toes, I wonder if I should be thankful for that or worried. I sit in the same swing that looks upriver and see the familiar sights I remember taking in on that sweet day: the Johnson’s dock, the Oyster Factory, Palmetto Bluff. All, about the same way as they were when I sat in the same spot one half hour before I kissed my bride not so many years ago. The difference now is that 1,825 days of life have passed; 1,825 days mixed in both sweet and sorrowful hues, pleasant and bitter aromas, light and dark perspective. Intermingled amongst those flutter of days, that passing of time was the peace of softly falling cherry blossoms drifting in the wind, the anticipation of first love, the dirge of loss, all breaking and rebuilding the heart in unfathomable ways. Such is the pace of life, with its triumph and tragedy that no man can change, no matter how humbly or diligently he tries to persuade God with his steadfastness or duty to law. Life rolls on with the impartiality of the river tides as they carry life and death on their current, refreshing the canvas twice each day. These things crowd my mind as I walk to the edge of the lawn and place my toes at the head of the dock. I stretch my arms and legs in anticipation of an evening swim. I am feeling twenty years more experienced for the wisdom gained yet forty years more worn and with each breath keenly aware that I might be just that much closer to death. I am a product of distraction.

The wood on the dock is becoming gray and worn, much like my hairline. Just as I am beginning to lament about my graying hair and how I am the antithesis of what I envisioned when I was fifteen I hear the footsteps of my bride, Betsy. She is my constant savior from self-loathing. Betsy wraps her arms around my shoulders and hugs me tight from behind. Unaware of my thoughts, she walks the length of the dock with me, silently enjoying the late afternoon breeze. I notice her hair has a trace of red and the roses the sun placed on her cheeks make her look like a little girl. Yet, she is radiant and feminine, strong and assured. I have struggled with her, loved with her and received grace from her since she was sixteen years old, nearly half of her life. We married in the Bluffton United Methodist Church five years ago in August. I thought on that day the vows we took placed a firm banner over an already long friendship and deep romance. It never really occurred to me that life and all its distraction wouldn’t tip its hand and let on to the things to come. I never would have believed the trials and tribulations that would strain and strengthen, deepen and truly seal our relationship if someone told me anyway. In the years since that unseasonably cool August night, those friends and family members that celebrated our wedding have produced among them four deaths, three destination weddings, several major relocations, three firings, two flunk outs, two divorces, twelve births, two miscarriages, several shoes tossed in anger, multiple scary physician diagnoses, a dozen curse words and at least two licensed professionals.

Sometimes, I feel like we live in an extended version of a country song. Oh, and did I mention that two dogs also died in this span? This doesn’t even take into account the normal din of everyday life that typically consumes, at a frenetic pace, about eighteen hours of each day. That is a lot of distraction; we live in a society of non-stop distraction. We chase and we worry, we scheme and we plan, we borrow to pay off, we borrow more to get ahead. Nearly lost in all of the distraction, no matter how close the triumph and tragedy bonded us, was what led us to that altar in the first place; grace, hope and love.

The tide was going out as we jumped hands together, into the salty, warm water. It fizzed like soda as we bobbed to the surface and swam to the drifting ski-rope, forever attached to the dock for occasions such as this. We hardly spoke, just held on to the rope and each other, carefully studying the ripples in the water, birds in the sky, or making sure the occasional floating reed wasn’t actually a hungry shark or gator. It never was. After a while she brushed the hair from my eyes, kissing my nose and then my lips, puckering with their saltiness. “It’s our anniversary you know” she said in a sweet and playful manner. I smiled, not yet speaking. “Can you believe it’s been five years?” By now she was trying to coax a response out of me. I coyly remarked that it was in fact hard to believe time had gone by so fast. Not satisfied, she pressed on, “and what about your favorite memory.” There were thousands of memories, varied in shape and size, it would be impossible to choose. “Too many to count,” and with this she pushed away. I had punted on the question and it wounded her. To make matters worse, I began to lament, “there is just so much distraction, so much that has diverted our attention from love and exclusive time with each other, I...” She cut me off and quickly swam back to me. “Listen here, when somebody loves you, that’s where your faith needs to reside; in the fact that love is unconditional and full of grace. There isn’t anything you can do about all the other stuff. You don’t add one single hour to your life with all this worry, you take away moments from those that truly love you. You create the distraction. It’s all in your head. I love you and that is all that matters. Now shut up about all this doom and gloom and kiss me.” She instantly saw in my face, the renewed spark; but she searched my heart with her eyes, not looking away until she was satisfied that her words turned my mood. As always, they had.

As we pulled ourselves out of the salty May River and walked back up the dock I thought of Woody Allen’s quote on distraction and how it ends with “...that in the midst of this veil of tears there are things, a good book, a good movie, which can distract us from the situation in which we truly find ourselves.” I thought of how sad, hollow and without hope the pursuit of life would be if all we were measuring happiness by was the way in which we manage, chase after, or take comfort in distraction, thereby missing the real beauty and soft moments even the hardest of times can produce. I stopped Betsy at the edge of the lawn, “my favorite memory of the past five years, the one that I look to when I am the most down?” She grinned in anticipation, “was when” she leaned in as if to get a kiss “you almost killed me the first time you fried chicken” I quickly blurted before kissing her forehead and teasingly running off. She scrunched her nose in disgust and gave chase with her towel and flip flops, and ultimately the hose. We were teenagers again, playing in love, playing in marriage and unknowingly celebrating all the sweet distraction to come.