Yesterday I learned that an old high school friend had died at the age of 47, of heart disease. It was delivered to me by a cousin of my friend, who just happens to be my best friend from college. Such news hurt me sharply, hotly, and more than to be expected regarding someone with whom I had not spoken in decades. Today, my impatience showed when I failed to let the pan get hot enough before deglazing the onions with a shot of red wine. It was dinner, and I was sad and angry.
How to reconcile Death with pork ragu over pasta? Is this possible? My belly did not care. Hunger is its imperative. My soul, on the other hand, disagreed. I wept into my fist.
Hunger will not be denied. Nor will sadness. It is a peculiarity of my being that I am ever hungry unless I am deeply ill or otherwise disturbed to the point of collapse. The news of my friend's death pushed me to that edge. Yesterday, I wept over my keyboard, feeling simultaneously ashamed and indignant that I was reduced to such a state. There was no denying that my friend and I had drifted far apart over the past two decades. No communications had been had in the intervening years, notwithstanding the ease and facility of Facebook, Twitter and myriad other digital ways to find and connect. Perhaps it was partly that shock of realization that fueled my outburst at the stove tonight.
My friend had married, he had moved to Mississippi, he had become the owner of a country store. I was unaware of none of these facts of his existence. It seemed an impossible task to reconcile all this lost history with making dinner. Perhaps I really should not have tried. I was tired and sad and the walls between my day and my heart were breaking down. I thought back to the wakes I have known in my life, those impossibly strained gatherings where we met at the houses of the deceased or their family, and loved ones and strangers show up bearing platters of fried chicken, lasagna, potato salad and anything else grieving souls can think to pull together to succor those who have lost the most. Death takes its pound of flesh, and we can think of nothing but conversation and filling our bellies.
Then there was me, standing at the stove stirring a skillet full of sauce while waiting for the pasta to be done. Wiping my eyes, I had to grin thinking of my old friend. I knew perfectly well that he would not have tolerated any bullshit from me on this matter. He was a bright spirit with a world-class sense of humor. I heard his voice in my head, saying "Quit yer bitchin', you damn dumb Irishman, and shut up and eat!" In his honor, I complied. Even if the soul is empty, the belly must be filled.
Nearly fifty years on this planet, and time showed me just how far we may drift apart on the oceans of our lives. But I know, I know, how deep the currents run and how far they reach. The soul feels it when a part of its past departs this world. Currents of the heart pull and shift, and we feel the disturbance keenly across time and miles.
In memory of F.C., my friend. Good luck and godspeed.
Showing posts with label big boys do cry dammit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label big boys do cry dammit. Show all posts
14 January 2015
23 August 2014
The Little Boy Who Mattered
The little boy was found on a beach, naked, alone and sick. So sick he just sat there and panted. He was surrounded by a group of onlookers, none of whom wanted to take him home. To touch him could mean signing one's own death warrant. No one wanted to risk it.
To live in a poor part of town in the capital of a country, Liberia, that by many measures is also poor, is perhaps difficulty enough to forge a life. To be placed in a "holding" facility because you are sick, that is doubly difficult. To know that the "holding" facility is not really a care facility, it is to get you off the streets because no one knows what to do with you, is an exercise in cruelty.
It was a miracle and a mystery that the little boy, ten years old by local accounts, managed to get out of the facility the night before it was attacked by an agitated mob who forced a number of the victims to flee the facility. The little boy ended up on the beach where he was found last Wednesday, and witnessed by a pair of photographers covering the Ebola outbreak in West Africa. He had no clothes. He was deathly ill. No one wanted to touch him.
Someone brought the little boy some clothes, but he was so weak he could not get the shirt over his head. The photographers gave some local women pairs of latex gloves, and the women helped the boy get the shirt on. But still, no one knew what to do with him. Understandably, they did not want to risk catching Ebola, assuming that was the affliction upon the boy.
Later, he was somehow moved to a nearby alleyway. He lay upon a sheet of cast-off cardboard, crumpled in a heap. So ill he could not move. People apparently walked by, eyeing the boy, but for a long time no one moved to help. Under the circumstances, maybe they felt all had been done that could be done.
The boy lay dying. One of the photographers, David Gilkey, took the boy's picture, later saying that the situation was an "evil Catch-22". A better phrase perhaps cannot be found to describe what they witnessed there in that alley. People want to help but they don't know what to do. They do not want to risk getting sick themselves.
By some turn of events, a neighbor took the boy to a local hospital where they had some facility to care for a person sick with Ebola. Fortune turned slightly. There was word that the boy was improving, news that was of no small import in a region so hard hit by a modern plague. Maybe the universe was not such a hard case after all.
But we know different. On August 21st the other photographer, John Moore, spoke with the boy's aunt. She herself and her children were checking into a clinic because they suspected they had contracted the Ebola virus. She told the photographer that the little boy had died of Ebola, as had his mother before him. An unsurprising outcome given the circumstances, we tell ourselves and shrug.
I told myself the same thing. I could not insulate myself from the effects. I heard the news while driving down the highway in air-conditioned comfort, thousands of miles away from a lonely and sick little boy who died because no one could do enough. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, choking down the lump in my throat. It is not hard to imagine that he perhaps had no one to mourn his passing. I did not curse the universe, because I know better. I know the futility of such endeavors from direct experience of the worst it has to offer.
Later, I saw the picture of him in the alley. He had on the red shirt someone had brought him. He was sick, so sick, and I hope he did not die alone. His name was Saah Exco, and he was a little boy who mattered.
To live in a poor part of town in the capital of a country, Liberia, that by many measures is also poor, is perhaps difficulty enough to forge a life. To be placed in a "holding" facility because you are sick, that is doubly difficult. To know that the "holding" facility is not really a care facility, it is to get you off the streets because no one knows what to do with you, is an exercise in cruelty.
It was a miracle and a mystery that the little boy, ten years old by local accounts, managed to get out of the facility the night before it was attacked by an agitated mob who forced a number of the victims to flee the facility. The little boy ended up on the beach where he was found last Wednesday, and witnessed by a pair of photographers covering the Ebola outbreak in West Africa. He had no clothes. He was deathly ill. No one wanted to touch him.
Someone brought the little boy some clothes, but he was so weak he could not get the shirt over his head. The photographers gave some local women pairs of latex gloves, and the women helped the boy get the shirt on. But still, no one knew what to do with him. Understandably, they did not want to risk catching Ebola, assuming that was the affliction upon the boy.
Later, he was somehow moved to a nearby alleyway. He lay upon a sheet of cast-off cardboard, crumpled in a heap. So ill he could not move. People apparently walked by, eyeing the boy, but for a long time no one moved to help. Under the circumstances, maybe they felt all had been done that could be done.
The boy lay dying. One of the photographers, David Gilkey, took the boy's picture, later saying that the situation was an "evil Catch-22". A better phrase perhaps cannot be found to describe what they witnessed there in that alley. People want to help but they don't know what to do. They do not want to risk getting sick themselves.
By some turn of events, a neighbor took the boy to a local hospital where they had some facility to care for a person sick with Ebola. Fortune turned slightly. There was word that the boy was improving, news that was of no small import in a region so hard hit by a modern plague. Maybe the universe was not such a hard case after all.
But we know different. On August 21st the other photographer, John Moore, spoke with the boy's aunt. She herself and her children were checking into a clinic because they suspected they had contracted the Ebola virus. She told the photographer that the little boy had died of Ebola, as had his mother before him. An unsurprising outcome given the circumstances, we tell ourselves and shrug.
I told myself the same thing. I could not insulate myself from the effects. I heard the news while driving down the highway in air-conditioned comfort, thousands of miles away from a lonely and sick little boy who died because no one could do enough. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, choking down the lump in my throat. It is not hard to imagine that he perhaps had no one to mourn his passing. I did not curse the universe, because I know better. I know the futility of such endeavors from direct experience of the worst it has to offer.
Later, I saw the picture of him in the alley. He had on the red shirt someone had brought him. He was sick, so sick, and I hope he did not die alone. His name was Saah Exco, and he was a little boy who mattered.
13 April 2014
On the Unaccountable Sadness of Orchestral Maneuvers in the Morning (Sunday Meditation #39)
I find sometimes that a familiar song played solely on violins and such often leaves me with a desire to weep. A curious phenomenon that is not conducive to the conduct of business in the public sphere. While not given to frequent weeping, I am not a man that is afraid to let it vent if circumstances dictate.
Still, it is troublesome. Not the sort of thing that should occur on an otherwise ordinary Thursday morning. Sweeping the floor, tending the shop: the retail equivalent of the Buddhist practice to chop wood, carry water. Music played and the tune was familiar, although I could not recall its name. An instrumental version heavy on violins and cellos. I paused while leaning on the broom. A lump formed in my throat. There called a low voice in my head, asking why this must be so.
I had no answer to this homesickness. Perhaps it is the vestige of the little boy in me, or the mercurial passions of the Irish poet I hope lives on my heart. Maybe there is no difference between the two. All I know is that in chords I cannot name I felt a pull between those things I left behind and those things towards which I travel.
The song ended. I swept the floor, greeted the customers. The lump I swallowed along with the tears that never reached my eyes. There was new music in my head, it was good, I kept moving towards the light.
Still, it is troublesome. Not the sort of thing that should occur on an otherwise ordinary Thursday morning. Sweeping the floor, tending the shop: the retail equivalent of the Buddhist practice to chop wood, carry water. Music played and the tune was familiar, although I could not recall its name. An instrumental version heavy on violins and cellos. I paused while leaning on the broom. A lump formed in my throat. There called a low voice in my head, asking why this must be so.
I had no answer to this homesickness. Perhaps it is the vestige of the little boy in me, or the mercurial passions of the Irish poet I hope lives on my heart. Maybe there is no difference between the two. All I know is that in chords I cannot name I felt a pull between those things I left behind and those things towards which I travel.
The song ended. I swept the floor, greeted the customers. The lump I swallowed along with the tears that never reached my eyes. There was new music in my head, it was good, I kept moving towards the light.
08 November 2013
A Few Words on Transient Grief
7:48 PM CST. Exhaustion and lassitude for dessert. It is dark earlier, to which we are resigned.
There is no meter of which I am aware to measure the suckage of any given day. If there were, it would probably be available at a big-box hardware store, and there would be one in my tool box or glove compartment, right next to the voltage meter or the air pressure gauge where I expect it to be anytime I need to check some voltage or wonder what the pressure is in my tires. Which is not that often, as you might expect. Still, when I want to know if a circuit is hot or the sagging tire does not convince me, it is nice to know that the tool I need will be there.
Except for today. Today, the tool was not there. Come to think of it, it never was, and I am confounded as to why this distresses me so much. Maybe because I was grasping at straws, fighting for air through a dense thicket of gargantuan irritation catalyzed by a Greek chorus of grief that chanted all day in my hind brain.
It is a sunny day in November, in the Year of Our Lawd 2013, and I wanted to call my big brother and wish him a Happy Birthday! He would have been 50 years young today.
He would have been. But he is not, except in my memory and the memory of family and friends. The loss is four years old now, seeming just yesterday and forever ago. It was not until I was pounding on the steering wheel and screaming at the unknowing driver in the car ahead of mine, that I realized why my eyes kept welling up today for no apparent reason.
Big Bro would have been 50 years old today, and I am furious that I cannot call him up and give him some stick about it. He was always supposed to be older than me, and my heart has not yet wrapped itself around that unavoidable fact of our existence. Yelling at strangers who cannot hear me will not change all that, bit sometimes, on a bright November day, I do not know what else to do.
There is no meter of which I am aware to measure the suckage of any given day. If there were, it would probably be available at a big-box hardware store, and there would be one in my tool box or glove compartment, right next to the voltage meter or the air pressure gauge where I expect it to be anytime I need to check some voltage or wonder what the pressure is in my tires. Which is not that often, as you might expect. Still, when I want to know if a circuit is hot or the sagging tire does not convince me, it is nice to know that the tool I need will be there.
Except for today. Today, the tool was not there. Come to think of it, it never was, and I am confounded as to why this distresses me so much. Maybe because I was grasping at straws, fighting for air through a dense thicket of gargantuan irritation catalyzed by a Greek chorus of grief that chanted all day in my hind brain.
It is a sunny day in November, in the Year of Our Lawd 2013, and I wanted to call my big brother and wish him a Happy Birthday! He would have been 50 years young today.
He would have been. But he is not, except in my memory and the memory of family and friends. The loss is four years old now, seeming just yesterday and forever ago. It was not until I was pounding on the steering wheel and screaming at the unknowing driver in the car ahead of mine, that I realized why my eyes kept welling up today for no apparent reason.
Big Bro would have been 50 years old today, and I am furious that I cannot call him up and give him some stick about it. He was always supposed to be older than me, and my heart has not yet wrapped itself around that unavoidable fact of our existence. Yelling at strangers who cannot hear me will not change all that, bit sometimes, on a bright November day, I do not know what else to do.
11 October 2013
But Then I Realized I Have a Smartphone and Have Never Been Shot In The Head
I woke up this morning with a head full of angst and remnants of unsettled dreams. I believe both were induced by a dearth of good money combined with a surfeit of bad government. Too much is too much, even when it springs from not enough. I did not face the day with confidence.
Stoic chewing through a breakfast that was so much better than the mundanity it suggested. Having low expectations will do that to a soul. The taste faded quickly, my mind and belly experiencing a familiar disconnect. Normally, food captures my imagination but lately it has been more of a minor distraction in the face of the thought-pressure I cannot cease generating. I ate. Tasted, not so much.
I loaded my gear into my car, trying not to think about the new tires it truly needs, but may not get soon enough. Another money cliff over which I could fall. A deep breath and a shake of the head succeeds in dispelling that particular cloud. I have some work to do, thankfully, enough to make it through the day.
Into the car, onto the road. Local radio for company. The smart phone chirps intermittently, offering directions which veer from helpful to annoying. But I do not turn it off.
The work proceeds smoothly, mostly. Later, when I begin to grow tired and hungry, the fingers grow clumsy. The mind grows dull. Minor errors multiply. Epithets escape gritted teeth. It is done.
Setting off for home I experience some small glitches in the technology I carry. My annoyance is somewhat out of proportion to the severity of the offense. It grows when faced with some truly questionable driving decisions inflicted upon the innocents by a careless boor who must have received their driving lessons via old-fashioned mail. I grow cranky.
Upon arrival at mi casa, the tussle with technology is not over. The computer awaits, it cannot be avoided, so to the interface I must. Cables and image files and downloads and uploads; the party is just getting started. Files are sloughed off, folders created, bits and bytes are pushed around.
It gets close to dinner time when I realize my early-morning funk never quite went away. Partly hunger, I know, because I skipped lunch. A rumbling belly nudges me in the direction of the kitchen, in search of some leftover soup. Disconnected dissatisfaction with modern life hovers about, a thin gray cloak settled over slumping shoulders. The relief was in the technology, though.
Today on the internet, I saw a short video about kids playing musical instruments made out of recycled landfill debris. A cello. A violin. What looked to be trumpets and other brasses. Kids whose families earn a living by culling refuse and recycling it to sell for money. They were playing symphonic music, and playing it well. It was so beautiful it made the filth and trash disappear.
My smartphone was losing some of its shine. I sat there with my bowl of homemade soup, lip quivering.
Today on the internet, I saw an interview with Malala Yousafzai, the young lady from Pakistan who garnered international renown when members of the Taliban shot her in the head, all because she championed the rights of girls and women to be educated. She was composed, passionate and inspiring. Her words were so beautiful they made the violence and hate disappear.
A group of violent reactionaries attempted to kill a 15-year old girl who wanted to be educated. I thought of my own daughter and her love for school. I bit my lip, swallowed my soup.
It was then that the cloud lifted. I have a phone that can access the sum total of human knowledge. I have the resources to make good food to fill my belly. What I do not do is make cellos out of oil drums and cast-off wood. What I do not fear is being targeted for assassination because of my gender and desire to gain knowledge. In those, I am blessed.
And if anyone cannot be inspired by true triumphs of human ingenuity and character, if a "Landfillharmonic" and the courage of a girl who truly had a lot to lose, well, then I am unsure there is hope for them.
As to myself, I wept a little, relieved that I am human.
Stoic chewing through a breakfast that was so much better than the mundanity it suggested. Having low expectations will do that to a soul. The taste faded quickly, my mind and belly experiencing a familiar disconnect. Normally, food captures my imagination but lately it has been more of a minor distraction in the face of the thought-pressure I cannot cease generating. I ate. Tasted, not so much.
I loaded my gear into my car, trying not to think about the new tires it truly needs, but may not get soon enough. Another money cliff over which I could fall. A deep breath and a shake of the head succeeds in dispelling that particular cloud. I have some work to do, thankfully, enough to make it through the day.
Into the car, onto the road. Local radio for company. The smart phone chirps intermittently, offering directions which veer from helpful to annoying. But I do not turn it off.
The work proceeds smoothly, mostly. Later, when I begin to grow tired and hungry, the fingers grow clumsy. The mind grows dull. Minor errors multiply. Epithets escape gritted teeth. It is done.
Setting off for home I experience some small glitches in the technology I carry. My annoyance is somewhat out of proportion to the severity of the offense. It grows when faced with some truly questionable driving decisions inflicted upon the innocents by a careless boor who must have received their driving lessons via old-fashioned mail. I grow cranky.
Upon arrival at mi casa, the tussle with technology is not over. The computer awaits, it cannot be avoided, so to the interface I must. Cables and image files and downloads and uploads; the party is just getting started. Files are sloughed off, folders created, bits and bytes are pushed around.
It gets close to dinner time when I realize my early-morning funk never quite went away. Partly hunger, I know, because I skipped lunch. A rumbling belly nudges me in the direction of the kitchen, in search of some leftover soup. Disconnected dissatisfaction with modern life hovers about, a thin gray cloak settled over slumping shoulders. The relief was in the technology, though.
Today on the internet, I saw a short video about kids playing musical instruments made out of recycled landfill debris. A cello. A violin. What looked to be trumpets and other brasses. Kids whose families earn a living by culling refuse and recycling it to sell for money. They were playing symphonic music, and playing it well. It was so beautiful it made the filth and trash disappear.
My smartphone was losing some of its shine. I sat there with my bowl of homemade soup, lip quivering.
Today on the internet, I saw an interview with Malala Yousafzai, the young lady from Pakistan who garnered international renown when members of the Taliban shot her in the head, all because she championed the rights of girls and women to be educated. She was composed, passionate and inspiring. Her words were so beautiful they made the violence and hate disappear.
A group of violent reactionaries attempted to kill a 15-year old girl who wanted to be educated. I thought of my own daughter and her love for school. I bit my lip, swallowed my soup.
It was then that the cloud lifted. I have a phone that can access the sum total of human knowledge. I have the resources to make good food to fill my belly. What I do not do is make cellos out of oil drums and cast-off wood. What I do not fear is being targeted for assassination because of my gender and desire to gain knowledge. In those, I am blessed.
And if anyone cannot be inspired by true triumphs of human ingenuity and character, if a "Landfillharmonic" and the courage of a girl who truly had a lot to lose, well, then I am unsure there is hope for them.
As to myself, I wept a little, relieved that I am human.
25 September 2013
Bed of Moss (Memento Mori)
May I stay awhile with you,
as you lay upon that bed of moss?
Picture frame of a decades' rest
among the hush of the departed
(see, it will be just like that when you are dead)
I kneel, dappled with sun,
Tears and sweat my only choices
for caressing the stones, cleansing them
of desecration by leaf and mud
(you'll be over there, I'll be over here)
On the bad days,
your silences louder than hell
On the good days,
memories ringing of peace
(we just can't see each other)
as you lay upon that bed of moss?
Picture frame of a decades' rest
among the hush of the departed
(see, it will be just like that when you are dead)
I kneel, dappled with sun,
Tears and sweat my only choices
for caressing the stones, cleansing them
of desecration by leaf and mud
(you'll be over there, I'll be over here)
On the bad days,
your silences louder than hell
On the good days,
memories ringing of peace
(we just can't see each other)
16 July 2013
Diamantaire
Ten years gone. The magma has cooled somewhat, thick curls and billows hardening on the the slopes of my soul. Heat remains in spite of the multitude of solstices observed since the earth opened up and I glimpsed the heart of the universe.
Ten years. A decade of wondering, of myriad attempts to wrap my head around events of great force and stunning majesty. This has been a grand tilting at windmills, I know. The task itself can only be attempted imperfectly, like cutting a diamond that ever reveals one more tiny flaw.
Ten years. My children born in a burst of light and heat, human-shaped supernovas I cradled in my arms. Supernovas do not last, I knew that then. The evidence was borne out as I watched them fade, powerless to stop the inexorable progression of terrible things unleashed by the heavens.
Yet other things were born even as I later watched them pass away. The rough prisms of their souls fell into my hands, my heart, and on the day they were born, and I became a gemcutter.
Ten years of practice, I have had. I study, polish and cut. The memories have hard, sharp edges, it is true. But they are clear, brilliant and beautiful. I remember my son and daughter, diffracted, like diamonds in the heart. It is their birthday. I polish the facets, practicing my new trade as diamantaire of memories potent and raw.
--
In memory of the Bear and the Butterfly.
Ten years. A decade of wondering, of myriad attempts to wrap my head around events of great force and stunning majesty. This has been a grand tilting at windmills, I know. The task itself can only be attempted imperfectly, like cutting a diamond that ever reveals one more tiny flaw.
Ten years. My children born in a burst of light and heat, human-shaped supernovas I cradled in my arms. Supernovas do not last, I knew that then. The evidence was borne out as I watched them fade, powerless to stop the inexorable progression of terrible things unleashed by the heavens.
Yet other things were born even as I later watched them pass away. The rough prisms of their souls fell into my hands, my heart, and on the day they were born, and I became a gemcutter.
Ten years of practice, I have had. I study, polish and cut. The memories have hard, sharp edges, it is true. But they are clear, brilliant and beautiful. I remember my son and daughter, diffracted, like diamonds in the heart. It is their birthday. I polish the facets, practicing my new trade as diamantaire of memories potent and raw.
--
In memory of the Bear and the Butterfly.
12 May 2013
Mother Loam
May, blooms unfolding,
Her breath, her blood shaped you
She was your first house!
---
For my Ma, the earth what gave me roots
Her breath, her blood shaped you
She was your first house!
---
For my Ma, the earth what gave me roots
15 April 2013
On the Realization of Having Gone Off the Path
April 14th, 4:39 PM. A sudden jerking awake, a popping of the bubble. Good lord, man, what happened?
It is not an exaggeration to say I had an abrupt moment of clarity, this morning, between slipping in and out of naps. Clarity accompanied by the gasp of knowing that there seems to be a lot undone in recent days. The lack of "productivity" in my life always creates a tension with which I find it hard to cope. I was disappointed that I have written and photographed almost nothing since March 23rd. Also, somewhat anxious.
What makes this absurdly funny is that I had no official deadlines or production schedules in that time.
Life is what happens when you make other plans...to be clear, I had a near week long visit with my daughter at the beginning of the month, followed closely by surgery (due to the events mentioned HEARnia), the recovery time I knew full well would set me back by keeping me off my feet. Even so I remained optimistic that while reclining in bed or on the couch I would still be working the keyboards and maybe even getting a jump on the Next Great American Novel. I thought I would bounce back in a snap, not unlike I did the first time I had a similar operation nearly 30 years gone.
Boy, was I ever mistaken. The surgery was just over 4 days ago, I was home the afternoon it took place, but it wasn't until now, a relatively nice Sunday afternoon, that I felt energetic and focused enough to sit down and write. Anything. Anything at all. In hindsight, I am astounded I managed to communicate to the extent I did during the last week. Even that was thanks to the miracle of the Interwebs and social media. The combined effects of surgery, anesthesia, pain medications and the fact I've been a few more years around the sun rendered me exhausted, loopy and beyond caring (too much) about typos. The smart phone was a boon, allowing me to at least dabble in the world beyond my shoulders between bouts of sudden-onset napping and just plain goofball fuzziness. I also managed to stay connected to loved ones, far and near.
My plans for literary excellence, or even increased output, were busted. It made me antsy, even as I drifted off to snooze and comprehensively map the insides of my eyelids. A curious battle between the need to rest (which really was the right way) and this need to fulfill my creative, productive urge. It felt good to rest, but laced with a ribbon of panic that golden opportunities were slipping away from me.
It's a good thing that I have people in my life who care deeply for me, for my well-being. I may have received some good-natured teasing over some typos and the loopiness I indulged in, but I also received good advice and care. Priceless, indeed. The core of the advice I needed to hear, is that my body is telling me what it needs, and I would do well to listen. No sense in trying to bang out a collection of short stories if all it does is land me right back in the care of physicians.
Having said all that, I think it's time to wrap it up. I getting weary again, the body is achy. I have some more meditations I'd like to offer to you, dear readers, based on my "from-gurney-observations" I collected whilst in the recovery room. Minor epiphanies and gratitudes, if I may. Those will wait a bit longer, after a nap and maybe some ice cream.
It is not an exaggeration to say I had an abrupt moment of clarity, this morning, between slipping in and out of naps. Clarity accompanied by the gasp of knowing that there seems to be a lot undone in recent days. The lack of "productivity" in my life always creates a tension with which I find it hard to cope. I was disappointed that I have written and photographed almost nothing since March 23rd. Also, somewhat anxious.
What makes this absurdly funny is that I had no official deadlines or production schedules in that time.
Life is what happens when you make other plans...to be clear, I had a near week long visit with my daughter at the beginning of the month, followed closely by surgery (due to the events mentioned HEARnia), the recovery time I knew full well would set me back by keeping me off my feet. Even so I remained optimistic that while reclining in bed or on the couch I would still be working the keyboards and maybe even getting a jump on the Next Great American Novel. I thought I would bounce back in a snap, not unlike I did the first time I had a similar operation nearly 30 years gone.
Boy, was I ever mistaken. The surgery was just over 4 days ago, I was home the afternoon it took place, but it wasn't until now, a relatively nice Sunday afternoon, that I felt energetic and focused enough to sit down and write. Anything. Anything at all. In hindsight, I am astounded I managed to communicate to the extent I did during the last week. Even that was thanks to the miracle of the Interwebs and social media. The combined effects of surgery, anesthesia, pain medications and the fact I've been a few more years around the sun rendered me exhausted, loopy and beyond caring (too much) about typos. The smart phone was a boon, allowing me to at least dabble in the world beyond my shoulders between bouts of sudden-onset napping and just plain goofball fuzziness. I also managed to stay connected to loved ones, far and near.
My plans for literary excellence, or even increased output, were busted. It made me antsy, even as I drifted off to snooze and comprehensively map the insides of my eyelids. A curious battle between the need to rest (which really was the right way) and this need to fulfill my creative, productive urge. It felt good to rest, but laced with a ribbon of panic that golden opportunities were slipping away from me.
It's a good thing that I have people in my life who care deeply for me, for my well-being. I may have received some good-natured teasing over some typos and the loopiness I indulged in, but I also received good advice and care. Priceless, indeed. The core of the advice I needed to hear, is that my body is telling me what it needs, and I would do well to listen. No sense in trying to bang out a collection of short stories if all it does is land me right back in the care of physicians.
Having said all that, I think it's time to wrap it up. I getting weary again, the body is achy. I have some more meditations I'd like to offer to you, dear readers, based on my "from-gurney-observations" I collected whilst in the recovery room. Minor epiphanies and gratitudes, if I may. Those will wait a bit longer, after a nap and maybe some ice cream.
12 March 2013
Echoes and Ricochets
It wasn't the two sets of strangers' fingers digging into my groin that brought tears to my eyes. It was a heart attack what did it. A heart attack that does not belong to me, but in some guise feels as if it had.
I was standing in the exam room, after the obligatory Q & A with the surgeon and the medical student who accompanied her. I had been asked more than once if it was okay for the student to be there, and if she could also participate in the exam. As I long ago shed most of my squeamishness when it comes to medical exams, I told them I had no problem with it. The way I see it, we all have to start somewhere, and how else is anyone going to learn this stuff?
So there I was, two people I had met for the first time only minutes ago, poking and prodding my groin to identify that what we were looking at was indeed a hernia. (It was. Yay, me.) They pushed somewhat hard, and it was moderately uncomfortable, but endurable in the name of medical education. I winced.
What was really working on my mind was not inguinal distress (fancy talk for "groin pain"), it was history. The student had asked a series of pre-exam questions relating to my medical history and that of my family, and she asked what proved to be the sharp question. Sharp, pointy, like a syringe needle.
"Do you have any siblings?"
There was a moment of silence, broken only by murmurs from the hall. Always, there is this dislocation when I have to decide between "have" and "had".
"Yes, one brother. Deceased."
"What did he die of, what did it?"
"He died suddenly, of a massive heart attack."
(concerned look)
"I'm so sorry."
"It took us all by surprise. Thank you."
We then segued into a general discussion, away from non-physical aches. Procedures and concerns and recovery times allowed me to step back from the edge of the canyon that had opened up in my head. Shortly after this exchange I was asked to stand so they could conduct the physical exam I mentioned earlier. The pain on the nerve endings acted as cover for the pain I felt in my heart and head, a peculiar ache caused by the loss of something that cannot be replaced. Subconsciously I think I was grateful for the physical hurt as a distraction. Exam concluded, I tugged up my undies, tucked in the shirt, and sat down to conclude the visit. Surgery and soon is for the best, we agreed, and I would let them know as soon as I figured out what to do. I left the office, got into my car and began the drive home.
The canyon opened up again, right there in the middle of a busy street. Memories of my brother flooded my head, and I nearly swooned. I sobbed, briefly. What to do with the shards of the past that deafen and sting when I least expect them? Sitting confused and helpless there at the stoplight, I wondered. I had the sensation that someone was in the passenger seat; and maybe, just maybe, my brother's ghost smiled and said "Duck and cover yer ears, bro, duck and cover yer ears."
It was just like him to say it. I ducked, I covered, I held him close as the echoes and ricochets faded away.
I was standing in the exam room, after the obligatory Q & A with the surgeon and the medical student who accompanied her. I had been asked more than once if it was okay for the student to be there, and if she could also participate in the exam. As I long ago shed most of my squeamishness when it comes to medical exams, I told them I had no problem with it. The way I see it, we all have to start somewhere, and how else is anyone going to learn this stuff?
So there I was, two people I had met for the first time only minutes ago, poking and prodding my groin to identify that what we were looking at was indeed a hernia. (It was. Yay, me.) They pushed somewhat hard, and it was moderately uncomfortable, but endurable in the name of medical education. I winced.
What was really working on my mind was not inguinal distress (fancy talk for "groin pain"), it was history. The student had asked a series of pre-exam questions relating to my medical history and that of my family, and she asked what proved to be the sharp question. Sharp, pointy, like a syringe needle.
"Do you have any siblings?"
There was a moment of silence, broken only by murmurs from the hall. Always, there is this dislocation when I have to decide between "have" and "had".
"Yes, one brother. Deceased."
"What did he die of, what did it?"
"He died suddenly, of a massive heart attack."
(concerned look)
"I'm so sorry."
"It took us all by surprise. Thank you."
We then segued into a general discussion, away from non-physical aches. Procedures and concerns and recovery times allowed me to step back from the edge of the canyon that had opened up in my head. Shortly after this exchange I was asked to stand so they could conduct the physical exam I mentioned earlier. The pain on the nerve endings acted as cover for the pain I felt in my heart and head, a peculiar ache caused by the loss of something that cannot be replaced. Subconsciously I think I was grateful for the physical hurt as a distraction. Exam concluded, I tugged up my undies, tucked in the shirt, and sat down to conclude the visit. Surgery and soon is for the best, we agreed, and I would let them know as soon as I figured out what to do. I left the office, got into my car and began the drive home.
The canyon opened up again, right there in the middle of a busy street. Memories of my brother flooded my head, and I nearly swooned. I sobbed, briefly. What to do with the shards of the past that deafen and sting when I least expect them? Sitting confused and helpless there at the stoplight, I wondered. I had the sensation that someone was in the passenger seat; and maybe, just maybe, my brother's ghost smiled and said "Duck and cover yer ears, bro, duck and cover yer ears."
It was just like him to say it. I ducked, I covered, I held him close as the echoes and ricochets faded away.
16 December 2012
Guard the Flame (Sunday Meditation #26)
Chimneys without caps,
Our brightly burning fires doused
Deadly metal rain
Our brightly burning fires doused
Deadly metal rain
30 October 2012
Heart Achieves Fusion
Bright galactic whorls,
Her fingertips hold my heart,
Lighting up my sky
--
Dedicated to Wee Lass
Her fingertips hold my heart,
Lighting up my sky
--
Dedicated to Wee Lass
09 August 2012
Third Time the Hammerfall
August 8, 2012. Hot day, heated heart. Summer should not be the season for grief.
The argentine light of a Kansas City midday pouring down on the giant shuttlecocks on the lawn at the Nelson Atkins Museum, and I immediately think of my Big Bro. I think of the three-year old canyon in my heart, gouged into the terra cotta of my soul. The heat and the light make the sculptures shimmer before my eyes. At least, I tell myself that is the cause as I try not to think too closely about his absence from this earth, on this the eve of the third anniversary of his passing.
I think of giant racquets in the hands of us as young men, ten meters tall and blithely unaware of the power we had as we strode the mountains of our youth. We used to laugh at the words 'badminton' and 'shuttlecock', our teenage brains caught up in a naive naughtiness. Nothing that we could not make a juvenile joke of, that is certain.
I stood still for a few minutes out there on the heat shimmer and dry grass. I was watching my daughter amble slowly down the stone walkway, lost in her own thoughts on a lazy summer afternoon. I felt a tremor of joy seeing my link to the future; I felt a chill breath of wind, shifting my gaze down the lawn where something moved. It was a breeze that rippled the grass, would that make sense? My Occam's Razor solution to the alternative of seeing my brother's ghost out there by there sculptures.
Yeah, that must be it. It was only a breeze. That's the official story.
But me, I know better. My brother and I, we were giants again playing games under the sun, with a mighty backhand swing fading into the light.
The argentine light of a Kansas City midday pouring down on the giant shuttlecocks on the lawn at the Nelson Atkins Museum, and I immediately think of my Big Bro. I think of the three-year old canyon in my heart, gouged into the terra cotta of my soul. The heat and the light make the sculptures shimmer before my eyes. At least, I tell myself that is the cause as I try not to think too closely about his absence from this earth, on this the eve of the third anniversary of his passing.
I think of giant racquets in the hands of us as young men, ten meters tall and blithely unaware of the power we had as we strode the mountains of our youth. We used to laugh at the words 'badminton' and 'shuttlecock', our teenage brains caught up in a naive naughtiness. Nothing that we could not make a juvenile joke of, that is certain.
I stood still for a few minutes out there on the heat shimmer and dry grass. I was watching my daughter amble slowly down the stone walkway, lost in her own thoughts on a lazy summer afternoon. I felt a tremor of joy seeing my link to the future; I felt a chill breath of wind, shifting my gaze down the lawn where something moved. It was a breeze that rippled the grass, would that make sense? My Occam's Razor solution to the alternative of seeing my brother's ghost out there by there sculptures.
Yeah, that must be it. It was only a breeze. That's the official story.
But me, I know better. My brother and I, we were giants again playing games under the sun, with a mighty backhand swing fading into the light.
22 July 2012
That Old Time Religion
It's Sunday, and you know what that means. It's time for guns and Jesus!
...
Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? I thought so, too, when the tagline first crossed my mind on Saturday. I tried to set it aside in favor of something else. As the day wore on, and the more I read in the news, I realized I wouldn't be able to drop it.
I was meditating on the awfulness of the shootings and killings that occurred in Aurora, trying to gain some understanding. It saddened me deeply to think that yet again something like this happened, yet again we will go through the cycle of shock, outrage and collective forgetting of the random, sudden violence that seems to be an unfortunate, horrifying earmark of life in the modern United States.
I told myself to send up a prayer that such a horror never happens to me, my friends and my family. I told myself to send up prayers for the victims and their loved ones. In many ways that is all we can do when faced with tragedies which have their only connection to ourselves through the medium of modern telecommunications technology.
I also hoped that outsiders with an agenda would exercise some tact and common sense, and refrain from using the tragedy as a sounding board for all manner of fear-mongering or idiocy. Way too optimistic on my part, I know. Sadly, that lasted all of no time.
That some commentators on ABC News got way ahead of themselves by trying too hard to make a link between the alleged gunman and the Tea Party, based on very sketchy and unsubstantiated information, was bad enough. I'm no fan of the Tea Party, but the link between the perpetrator and them was so tenuous at that stage (and I don't think it has been substantiated even now) these veterans of the reporting trade should definitely have known better than to put it out there.
Trying to be the first to report, okay, I get that. Want to be cutting edge "on the scene", okay fine, just do a better job of fact-checking before trying to trump the competition. Really, it was way to early and so little facts were known that it ends up making them look stupid.
What really made me sick, and feeling so fed up with the culture of violence in this country, was one particular set of statements made by U.S. Representative from Texas Louie Gohmert. In a truly breathtaking leap of logic (or illogic, depending on how you look at it) that strains the bounds reasonable thought, he made the following remarks in a radio interview broadcast by the Heritage Foundation:
"You know what really gets me, as a Christian, is to see the ongoing attacks on Judeo-Christian beliefs, and then some senseless crazy act of terror like this takes place.""Some of us happen to believe that when our founders talked about guarding our virtue and freedom, that that was important...Whether it's John Adams saying our Constitution was made only for moral and religious people ... Ben Franklin, only a virtuous people are capable of freedom, as nations become corrupt and vicious they have more need of masters ... We have been at war with the very pillars, the very foundation of this country.""People say ... where was God in all of this?...We've threatened high school graduation participations, if they use God's name, they're going to be jailed ... I mean that kind of stuff. Where was God? What have we done with God? We don't want him around. I kind of like his protective hand being present."
So he thinks that there is a link between random, mass violence and lack of religion. Furthermore, he seems to think it is specifically due to lack of Christianity. What is truly breathtaking in its willful irrationality is the connection he tries to make between supposed 'ongoing
attacks on Judeo-Christian beliefs' and the psychopathic actions of a single mass murderer.
Say what? How in the world does that even make sense? My guess is the perpetrator is a deeply troubled individual whose mind went places most of us cannot even imagine. I truly do not believe that it was a lack of Christianity that led to this; it was a pathological lack of reason and empathy. It speaks to narrowness of mind and arrogance of belief to claim this random act of violence as an attack on ones' belief system. Frankly, if Gohmert and folks like him are making Christianity look bad by claiming their religion had something to do with this crime.
But that's not all. It gets worse. He went on to speculate that the tragedy could have been lessened or stopped if only (you guessed it) more people in the theater had been carrying guns, and thereby could have taken down the shooter:
Oh, for the love of humanity, really? A crowded theater full of people carrying guns? Is this man a complete moron? People who were in the theater have been quoted as saying they thought the commotion was part of the movie. And do I really have to point out that it is generally DARK in movie theaters, so between that and the confusion, the soundtrack with special effects a generally untrained population...how would anyone have been able to take down the gunman without hurting and killing even more bystanders? Does he not understand the concepts of "fog of war" and "crossfire"?"It does make me wonder, with all those people in the theater, was there nobody that was carrying a gun that could have stopped this guy more quickly?"
Not long after I read the above remarks, I saw that old worn-out platitude "Guns don't kill people, people kill people" making the rounds in the media and on Facebook. Oh, it made my head hurt and my heart sick. There is nothing that pisses me off more every time something like this happens, when the gun nuts and NRA puppets start squawking about not taking away their weapons or controlling them. It completely misses the point, and in no way is an excuse to NOT do something about guns and their potential for crimes like the one in Aurora.
What really galls me, makes me sick and angry, is that too often Mr. Gohmert and many like him seem to think it was a lack of guns and God that lead to these tragedies. There I must emphatically disagree; sometimes I think this country suffers from a surfeit of both.
But he and many others are willfully missing the point. It is neither Christian belief or the right to bear arms that matters here. The most important thing, what we should all remember, is that someone went berserk and yet again the blood of innocents is on the ground. Pray that it doesn't happen again. Pray that we all may find peace.
16 July 2012
From Little Acorns
Hard to fathom how nine years can fold itself into the span of a few seconds, but it happens. I looked out the window into the sunlight peeking through the clouds and the hands of my first son and daughter wrapped themselves around my heart. It is a testament to the changes in me since 2003 that I did not cry to feel the pressure. I only lowered my head while coming to grips with what I knew was on the way. It's their birthday, the day that growing up and being a man were no longer optional.
They came into our lives in a fire drill of life, under duress and much too early for anyone. They had no choice, and neither did we. It was a terrifying, awesome spectacle that I believe no one wants to witness, but having gone through it I cannot deny the effect the whole delivery process had on me. There will be no forgetting the urgency of the operation. There will be no unseeing of the blood and the machines, the focus of so many to preserve the lives of two tiny babies.
Small, delicate, and ultimately too fragile, yet they made a man out of me. More precisely, they made a new man out of me, by bringing me face to face with the evolution I had long postponed. Our babies made me grow up. Fast.
What to say to them, on this day upon which they would have been nine years old? What can I tell them? What can I give to them, to their memories?
As parents many of us may want to believe that our children will be our legacy, and for many that is true. For me through them, however, it is not. At least as long as I am on this earth, the man that I became is destined to be their legacy.
My children shaped me, forged me, poured me into a new mold. If on this their birthday I do weep it will not be tears of anguish at their loss, it will be tears of joy. I will celebrate the day they came into the world and bestowed upon me the honor of being their father.
Nine years, my children. I have your memory in my mind and your love in my heart. Happy birthday, son and daughter. You are no longer of this earth, but you are loved.
They came into our lives in a fire drill of life, under duress and much too early for anyone. They had no choice, and neither did we. It was a terrifying, awesome spectacle that I believe no one wants to witness, but having gone through it I cannot deny the effect the whole delivery process had on me. There will be no forgetting the urgency of the operation. There will be no unseeing of the blood and the machines, the focus of so many to preserve the lives of two tiny babies.
Small, delicate, and ultimately too fragile, yet they made a man out of me. More precisely, they made a new man out of me, by bringing me face to face with the evolution I had long postponed. Our babies made me grow up. Fast.
What to say to them, on this day upon which they would have been nine years old? What can I tell them? What can I give to them, to their memories?
As parents many of us may want to believe that our children will be our legacy, and for many that is true. For me through them, however, it is not. At least as long as I am on this earth, the man that I became is destined to be their legacy.
My children shaped me, forged me, poured me into a new mold. If on this their birthday I do weep it will not be tears of anguish at their loss, it will be tears of joy. I will celebrate the day they came into the world and bestowed upon me the honor of being their father.
Nine years, my children. I have your memory in my mind and your love in my heart. Happy birthday, son and daughter. You are no longer of this earth, but you are loved.
17 June 2012
On The Occasion of Her Majesty's Blessing
Last night, and after dinner, there were brownies being prepared for the oven. The cleaning up of the kitchen was in progress. I was possessed of the small luxury of sitting down and browsing my email and social media outlets. With a full belly, and friendly banter laying down the soundtrack to a pleasant domestic scene, contentment was in the air. I arose from the computer, intent on getting a drink from the kitchen.
My daughter came bouncing through the doorway. She wore an apron that was long enough to be a dress on her frame, having been engaged in the making of the highly anticipated brownies. The smile on her face lit up the room. I stopped and smiled back. Her hands were behind her back and she had an impish gleam in her eyes.
"Daddy, I have an early Father's Day present for you!" she chirped.
"An early Father's Day present? What is it?" I said, sort of expecting a lump of brownie batter.
She stepped forward, bringing her arms around to wrap me in the fiercest hug Wee Lass has ever given me. She grinned and growled, making as if she were going to lift me off the floor. She shook me with a giggle.
"Happy Father's Day, Daddy!"
She was looking up at me with that smile like a cross of Mona Lisa and the Cheshire Cat. She hugged me tight again, then let go to scamper off back to the brownies. I reckon the grin on my face would have lit up a room or two after she let me go. The warmth in my heart was proof positive of the gift I just received.
I'm a blessed man, jewel o' my heart, because I get to be your dad. Happy Father's day, indeed.
My daughter came bouncing through the doorway. She wore an apron that was long enough to be a dress on her frame, having been engaged in the making of the highly anticipated brownies. The smile on her face lit up the room. I stopped and smiled back. Her hands were behind her back and she had an impish gleam in her eyes.
"Daddy, I have an early Father's Day present for you!" she chirped.
"An early Father's Day present? What is it?" I said, sort of expecting a lump of brownie batter.
She stepped forward, bringing her arms around to wrap me in the fiercest hug Wee Lass has ever given me. She grinned and growled, making as if she were going to lift me off the floor. She shook me with a giggle.
"Happy Father's Day, Daddy!"
She was looking up at me with that smile like a cross of Mona Lisa and the Cheshire Cat. She hugged me tight again, then let go to scamper off back to the brownies. I reckon the grin on my face would have lit up a room or two after she let me go. The warmth in my heart was proof positive of the gift I just received.
I'm a blessed man, jewel o' my heart, because I get to be your dad. Happy Father's day, indeed.
16 April 2012
Breathtaking Beauty in the Museum of Our Lives
Today I witnessed, was blessed, by beauty that brought tears to my eyes and nearly brought me to my knees. I have seen the Mona Lisa in real life, and I don't make that assertion lightly. I felt in the hand of my daughter, pressed to mine, and saw it in a collage such as only a child can make.
"I know what beauty is" I read somewhere, cannot remember who wrote that, but on a pleasant Sunday afternoon at the mall I was hit full force by its unmistakable truth.
My daughter and I were at the mall to view the art exhibits of local schoolchildren, hers included. She was eager to see it, as was I. Her piece was a mixed media collage of what she dubbed the "Silly Bot", a whimsical creation of metallic foil paper, markers, crayons and pens. The Silly Bot, as one would expect, is a robot in a silly pose, flanked by a bird in a cage (wearing a party hat), a small stage (what she dubbed the "joke stand", a small platform complete with microphone) and the "Amazing Flying Zebra", an airborne zebra wearing "rocket boots" (complete with flames) to boost it into the sky.
She said "There it is, daddy!" in that voice that is the essence of a child's glee. I felt a surge of pride, wonder and gratitude that the day had taken me there. She smiled and my heart followed. This was the wonder of creation, the joy of something unspoiled by the grinding of life. That someone could take so much delight in a simple act of creation! My god, the amount of beauty there is when we let ourselves see!
She wanted to see more, so we wandered amongst the displays. Batik prints, ceramic plaques, paintings, drawings, colors and collages. This was not the Louvre, nor did it need to be. It did not want to be. It was while gazing upon a print of a tortoise, done in muted primaries on a burlap screen, that I felt a lump in my throat. At that moment with my daughter's hand in mine, surrounded by the collective joy of heartfelt creation made material, by the simple presence of Art, my knees went weak. There were momentary tears in my eyes. I looked down at my daughter who was taking great delight on pointing out new treasures.
"I know what beauty is..." Yes, I do. It was next to me, around me, holding my hand, letting me see.
"I know what beauty is" I read somewhere, cannot remember who wrote that, but on a pleasant Sunday afternoon at the mall I was hit full force by its unmistakable truth.
My daughter and I were at the mall to view the art exhibits of local schoolchildren, hers included. She was eager to see it, as was I. Her piece was a mixed media collage of what she dubbed the "Silly Bot", a whimsical creation of metallic foil paper, markers, crayons and pens. The Silly Bot, as one would expect, is a robot in a silly pose, flanked by a bird in a cage (wearing a party hat), a small stage (what she dubbed the "joke stand", a small platform complete with microphone) and the "Amazing Flying Zebra", an airborne zebra wearing "rocket boots" (complete with flames) to boost it into the sky.
She said "There it is, daddy!" in that voice that is the essence of a child's glee. I felt a surge of pride, wonder and gratitude that the day had taken me there. She smiled and my heart followed. This was the wonder of creation, the joy of something unspoiled by the grinding of life. That someone could take so much delight in a simple act of creation! My god, the amount of beauty there is when we let ourselves see!
She wanted to see more, so we wandered amongst the displays. Batik prints, ceramic plaques, paintings, drawings, colors and collages. This was not the Louvre, nor did it need to be. It did not want to be. It was while gazing upon a print of a tortoise, done in muted primaries on a burlap screen, that I felt a lump in my throat. At that moment with my daughter's hand in mine, surrounded by the collective joy of heartfelt creation made material, by the simple presence of Art, my knees went weak. There were momentary tears in my eyes. I looked down at my daughter who was taking great delight on pointing out new treasures.
"I know what beauty is..." Yes, I do. It was next to me, around me, holding my hand, letting me see.
12 December 2011
Selene, She Knows
With the shorter days come longer nights, we all know. There are things we sometimes fail to notice in the nightfall, absorbed in our own thoughts and hurrying inside away from the chill and the polite desolation of winter outside our doors. In my case, I had failed to see the lights.
She did not. She always sees such things. It is not too far off to say that she is an extra pair of younger, sharper eyes to my older, jaded ones. We left the house, she was cheerfully singing doggerel rhymes and delightful nonsense. I was trying to recall if I had everything, had left nothing behind. I was even pondering tomorrow when I had to dive back into the cold, syrupy ocean of job searching and bill-paying angst. I was not looking at the sky, or even across the street.
In the car. Her cheerfulness takes the edge off the blade of my mind. A smile could even be said to grace my visage. This is good. We drive down the street and turn the corner. It hasn't sunk in to me yet, but she pipes up with the lilting declaration that "This is my favorite time of year to look at lights! They are so pretty!"
I finally see them. All up and down the main street leading out of my neighborhood. So many houses now adorned with lights of all kinds and colors. Even plenty of blue, my favorite color. The light of my life continues her narrative as we continue on. I hear the delight in her voice and it warms my heart.
I am a fool, sometimes, to fail to notice the beauty around me. I have often said I need a good editor, and my darling daughter is better than she knows. The world is fresh before her stained glass eyes, and so it comes to me. All I need to do is open mine.
The trees alongside the road thin out as we approach the highway. The sky is filling up with a white gold light. I see it first, the full moon, Selene in all her aureate glory hovering just above the horizon. I gasp. She asks "Daddy, what?"
"It's a full moon, sweet pea. Look at that!"
"Where?" I point. She gasps, too, when she sees it.
"Daddy, it is full! Look! Ooooo, it is so pretty!"
I catch a glimpse of her eyes in the rear view mirror, flashing in the glow of passing headlights. For an instant, I understand the mystery. I get her tidal pull, gravity tugging at the rivers of my veins, the ocean of my heart. This pull will only get stronger as she gets older, and someday I will be the moon to her Sun.
But for now, all I can say is, "Yes, sweetie, it is full. And so, so pretty."
She did not. She always sees such things. It is not too far off to say that she is an extra pair of younger, sharper eyes to my older, jaded ones. We left the house, she was cheerfully singing doggerel rhymes and delightful nonsense. I was trying to recall if I had everything, had left nothing behind. I was even pondering tomorrow when I had to dive back into the cold, syrupy ocean of job searching and bill-paying angst. I was not looking at the sky, or even across the street.
In the car. Her cheerfulness takes the edge off the blade of my mind. A smile could even be said to grace my visage. This is good. We drive down the street and turn the corner. It hasn't sunk in to me yet, but she pipes up with the lilting declaration that "This is my favorite time of year to look at lights! They are so pretty!"
I finally see them. All up and down the main street leading out of my neighborhood. So many houses now adorned with lights of all kinds and colors. Even plenty of blue, my favorite color. The light of my life continues her narrative as we continue on. I hear the delight in her voice and it warms my heart.
I am a fool, sometimes, to fail to notice the beauty around me. I have often said I need a good editor, and my darling daughter is better than she knows. The world is fresh before her stained glass eyes, and so it comes to me. All I need to do is open mine.
The trees alongside the road thin out as we approach the highway. The sky is filling up with a white gold light. I see it first, the full moon, Selene in all her aureate glory hovering just above the horizon. I gasp. She asks "Daddy, what?"
"It's a full moon, sweet pea. Look at that!"
"Where?" I point. She gasps, too, when she sees it.
"Daddy, it is full! Look! Ooooo, it is so pretty!"
I catch a glimpse of her eyes in the rear view mirror, flashing in the glow of passing headlights. For an instant, I understand the mystery. I get her tidal pull, gravity tugging at the rivers of my veins, the ocean of my heart. This pull will only get stronger as she gets older, and someday I will be the moon to her Sun.
But for now, all I can say is, "Yes, sweetie, it is full. And so, so pretty."
26 October 2011
Chancellor of the Exchequer
She knows, this blue-eyed wonder that is my progeny. She knows because I have told her that I lost my job and I do not have much money now. It hits home when you have to explain that there won't be as many trips to the bookstore or the zoo.
Although, it is impossible to resist that look of glee when ice cream is suggested. I have been unable to refuse Her Royal Cuteness on that score.
For her, it is visceral on an elementary level. Daddy hasn't enough money equals fewer books. For me, it is visceral in that it strikes right into my gut. Always. My gut has always been reluctant to play nice. In times of stress that translates into physical reactions that go beyond the typical low-grade grumble. It is a trait I dislike about myself. It limits my effectiveness, flexibility and on the worst days, my ability to be a cheerful human being.
This reared its head not long ago, on a sunny Saturday with my daughter. She was with me for her regular weekend visit, and the time had come for us to runs some errands. Foremost on my mind was a run to the bank, to deposit the next to last bits of income I may have for a while. Grateful that I had something, my stomach was also churning, gnashing at itself as I thought of the great black void of no money into which I was about plunge headlong. I was gathering up my papers when Wee Lass asked if we could take the change from her sheepy bank (its a sheep, not a pig) and count it. Of course, I said yes.
Mind you, the sheep was full. Crammed full. So full I had begun to stack the change on the nightstand next to it. More coins would not fit, as I had been saving all my change for her. Every day in over the past year on which I brought home change I had placed the coins in her bank. My idea was to set up an account for her, in which extra change and possibly allowance could be deposited.
This was to be hers, and hers alone.
We took the coins with us, and I deposited what I had into my account first. We then went to the coin counting machine, whereupon Wee Lass took great delight in dumping and scooping all the change into the hopper. Holy moly, there was so much change. By the time it was done, she had racked up over two-hundred bucks. We were ecstatic.
I told her that for now we would leave it in my account, and when I had more time, I would set up her own personal account, from the proceeds of the saved change. I let her know that I would have to come back later to get that done. She looked up at me.
"Daddy, you can keep it."
"Sweet pea, no, that's all yours to keep."
"It's okay, daddy, you can keep it because I know you don't have much money right now."
I knelt down right there, in the foyer of the bank. My bottom lip was trembling and I could feel the tears starting up in the corners of my eyes. I bit the inside of my cheeks. I had no desire to break down in a public venue, but this was tough.
"Are you sure? That money is yours."
"It's okay, you can give it to me later."
I hugged her, tight. Here was this amazing kid, this sweet daughter of mine lending me money. I thought my heart was going to burst. I didn't what else to say other than to thank her and tell her that I love her. You can bank on this: no matter what, there will always be two hundred dollars in my account. Always.
And my heart will ever be full of love for this wonderful creature who graces me with the moniker of "Daddy".
Although, it is impossible to resist that look of glee when ice cream is suggested. I have been unable to refuse Her Royal Cuteness on that score.
For her, it is visceral on an elementary level. Daddy hasn't enough money equals fewer books. For me, it is visceral in that it strikes right into my gut. Always. My gut has always been reluctant to play nice. In times of stress that translates into physical reactions that go beyond the typical low-grade grumble. It is a trait I dislike about myself. It limits my effectiveness, flexibility and on the worst days, my ability to be a cheerful human being.
This reared its head not long ago, on a sunny Saturday with my daughter. She was with me for her regular weekend visit, and the time had come for us to runs some errands. Foremost on my mind was a run to the bank, to deposit the next to last bits of income I may have for a while. Grateful that I had something, my stomach was also churning, gnashing at itself as I thought of the great black void of no money into which I was about plunge headlong. I was gathering up my papers when Wee Lass asked if we could take the change from her sheepy bank (its a sheep, not a pig) and count it. Of course, I said yes.
Mind you, the sheep was full. Crammed full. So full I had begun to stack the change on the nightstand next to it. More coins would not fit, as I had been saving all my change for her. Every day in over the past year on which I brought home change I had placed the coins in her bank. My idea was to set up an account for her, in which extra change and possibly allowance could be deposited.
This was to be hers, and hers alone.
We took the coins with us, and I deposited what I had into my account first. We then went to the coin counting machine, whereupon Wee Lass took great delight in dumping and scooping all the change into the hopper. Holy moly, there was so much change. By the time it was done, she had racked up over two-hundred bucks. We were ecstatic.
I told her that for now we would leave it in my account, and when I had more time, I would set up her own personal account, from the proceeds of the saved change. I let her know that I would have to come back later to get that done. She looked up at me.
"Daddy, you can keep it."
"Sweet pea, no, that's all yours to keep."
"It's okay, daddy, you can keep it because I know you don't have much money right now."
I knelt down right there, in the foyer of the bank. My bottom lip was trembling and I could feel the tears starting up in the corners of my eyes. I bit the inside of my cheeks. I had no desire to break down in a public venue, but this was tough.
"Are you sure? That money is yours."
"It's okay, you can give it to me later."
I hugged her, tight. Here was this amazing kid, this sweet daughter of mine lending me money. I thought my heart was going to burst. I didn't what else to say other than to thank her and tell her that I love her. You can bank on this: no matter what, there will always be two hundred dollars in my account. Always.
And my heart will ever be full of love for this wonderful creature who graces me with the moniker of "Daddy".
09 August 2011
Dog Days of the Soul
I once was possessed of the notion that I was a tough guy. Not in the sense of looking to get into fights, or crush beer cans on my forehead or any such nonsense. I thought I was tough that I could take anything the universe could throw at me. It was a conceit that sustained me for quite a long time in my life. The shame of it is that it was simply not true. The universe, as only it can, disabused me of that notion in a manner most violent, then kicked me while I was struggling to stand up.
My Big Bro has been gone two years now. I thought of him today, and realized what it was that had been nagging me a little since mid-July.
Remembering him reminded me that, really, I'm not as tough as I like to think.
Remembering him reminds me that I am human, as was he. Beautiful, sad, flawed but ultimately worthy of love.
This is a gift worth far more than being a tough guy. I remember you, my brother, and rejoice in being human.
My Big Bro has been gone two years now. I thought of him today, and realized what it was that had been nagging me a little since mid-July.
Remembering him reminded me that, really, I'm not as tough as I like to think.
Remembering him reminds me that I am human, as was he. Beautiful, sad, flawed but ultimately worthy of love.
This is a gift worth far more than being a tough guy. I remember you, my brother, and rejoice in being human.
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