Dad. Love.

I am sitting at my kitchen island, typing.  Sara Bareilles is sing about love. . .Love, Love, Love, Lo-ove. . .

I look up and see  a small ornament type thing that sits next to my sink.  It simply says, LOVE.  Below it there is a sign that says Faith.  If I move my eyes to the right, I see the #1 statue that I got for winning the stuffed hot pepper contest this year.  To the right of that is a "rooster" that I got from my cousins after my Aunt Carolyn passed away.  To the right of that is a hot plate that was my Grandma Fuzzy's, to the right of that is an antique plate that was my Grandma and Grandpa Schryver's.

Magnetized to the fridge is a picture of me and Jeff, and another picture of my Dad, hand in the air, a smile on his face, waving at me.  (The picture was taken when he pulled into my driveway with his camper, and Mom had already made it into the house, but he had to park the camper and get it ready.  It was when they stayed here for two weeks of my pregnancy with Paige).

Love.

I write on a day that was always joyous for us.  It was the start of the season for us.  The eve before Christmas eve and it was Dad's birthday.

"Bah, why'd you get me anything? I don't need anything."

"Bah, you came home for my birthday and you're going to your sisters?"

"Bah, your mother misses you."

Many mornings, many, many mornings, him and I would sit at the kitchen table at the house and sip coffee.  He'd smoke and stare at the TV, not listening to what was on, but thinking.  Thinking.

Sometimes, in the morning, I stare hypnotized into a cup of coffee, and understand all that he had been thinking.  In some moments of clarity, I think, "Damn, he knew it all!" 

He knew how hard it was to go to work every day.
He knew how hard it was to hold it together.
He knew how much he loved his children.
He knew how much love his children needed.
He knew.
He knew.
He knew.

And on the days when he said, "Bah. . .", he also said "I love you".  And on the days he yelled, he also showed his love for all of us (and our friends too).

I am sitting in a kitchen that he hasn't been in for many years, but he's all over this place.  And man, that hand in the air, the smile on his face, waving at me every day. . .

I wish I saw it every day.  I wish I noticed that picture every day.  But I don't.

Happy Birthday Dad.  I miss you.

Love. Love. Love. Lo-ove. . .

How Do You Live with a Broken Heart?

I suppose there are a million answers to that question.  I suppose that if you live to be over 40, there's probably a good likelihood that when you wake up in the morning, you are living with a broken heart.  If you've been divorced, lost a parent, lost a best friend, lost a child, lost a sibling, been kidnapped and pillaged. . .  the list goes on and on.  If you've been any of those things, then, well, I guess there is an answer to the question posed.

Me? Sometimes I just drive.  I get behind the wheel and drive until I get lost or until the car beeps that I'm almost out of gas.  Then I hit a button, find a gas station and head toward more gas or towards home, until the next time.

Sometimes I just cry.  That hasn't happened lately, and I find that if I allow it one time, then in a period of 24 hours, I've done it a hundred times.  So, I try not to let it happen too often. 

Sometimes I think it to death.  I think and think and analyze and think some more.

Then I drive.  Or I cry.  Or I hop in my bed and open a book that is bigger than the bible (11/22/63 by Stephen King - - - I can't fall asleep holding that book, it'll land on my head like a rock).  Books are good.  Books are real good when you want to escape.  .

Or I look up.

Sometimes I look up.

Sometimes in the midst of a softball tournament for the benefit of my brother's children, I can look up into the clear blue sky and see a hawk circling over the field.  And sometimes, if I listen real heard, I can hear that same hawk calling out, making noises, and circling.

Sometimes.  Though it's only happened once.

Sometimes I sit at work, finish a major contract, put my feet up on the desk, stretch my hands out before me and crack my knuckles, look up to the ceiling and breathe.

Sometimes I get so immersed in the day to day, the grind of troubles, the whine of children, the shine of children, the dream of something more, and I forget that I can do it.  And sometimes I think I've licked it, forgotten, succeeded in living with it. 

Sometimes I put the headphones on, hit shuffle, close my eyes and ask for a song that means something. Sometimes "Long Walk Home" comes up, and memories come rushing forth.  Sometimes "Dominick the Donkey" shows up, and memories come rushing forth.  Sometimes "My Way" comes up, and memories come rushing forth.

Sometimes I sit in silence.

Sometimes I am so hell bent on spending time with my children that I smother them with plans to watch a show together, play a game together, or talk to them that I aggravate them and they go it alone for awhile.

Sometimes I ignore people I love.  I forget to call or thank them.  I choose not to put forth the effort.

Sometimes I take on a task that is impossible to complete on my own, and I complete it.  Like moving a sofa from the top floor, down two flights of stairs, and into the basement.  Or mowing, planting the front garden, power washing the deck, cleaning the house, folding laundry and buying groceries in the span of eight hours without a break.

Sometimes I do that and more.

But most of the time? 

Most of the time I just try to love as much as I can because I know that other people are living with a broken heart, and other people need a smile, and other people have their own ways that work.

Tonight is a sometimes moment.

But most of the time, it's not.

It's Not Right

Red morning light spits through the shade; another day older closer to the grave. . .

I certainly wish that I could take credit for that opening line, but alas my best friend Bruce owns it.  I’m not even sure if it’s the opening line I needed to write to begin this post, but I love the combination of words, especially the word spits.  Who describes a sunrise, the start of a day like that?  I’ll tell you who:  the person who sees that it’s another day, there may be beauty in that red morning light, but when it wakes the person who has to get up and trudge through the dark in a world gone wrong (yep, same writer), you can bet it feels like the light is spitting – not casting its rays, not cascading, not peeping through the shade – but spitting.

Anyway, I might have had some dark thoughts this week, and I might have written a chapter or two about a very dark character; and I might have thrown words on a few personal pages.  But alas, I did not post on the blog because I just wasn’t in the mood to share any of those musings yet.

I didn’t have the kids all week.  The schedule during the summer months is a bit quirky - - - it’s a one week on, one week off schedule, Monday – Friday.  So, aside from basketball on Thursday (and for a brief period today), where I coached a team of seven kids that could shoot like Jordan, but had a tough time on rebounds and defense, I haven’t seen the kids since Monday.  Paige and Tony were on the team, and despite having lost every game (I never said I was a good coach on technique) during the past eight weeks, we had a ball (no pun intended). I will see them both again today as Paige tests for another belt in karate - - hi-ya!

But it’s not long enough.  It’s not often enough.  It’s not right.

I say that last line, and I feel like I’m constantly saying it about things, which makes me judgmental, a little narcissistic, and somewhat naïve about the world.

It’s not right that life is so short – that it’s not reaching the ripe old age of 80 or 85 anymore; it’s reaching that age without being murdered, without a drug overdose, without a mentally debilitating abuse, without a divorce, without some random health condition that lands you in the hospital for weeks, and ultimately leaves your children without a parent. 

It’s just not right.  It’s not right that the divorce broke my children’s hearts, and that I had some part in that breaking.  It’s not right that because I’ve been broken, I’m not likely to ever love hard enough to be that broken again.  I don’t know if that makes sense, but the song “The First Cut is the Deepest” hits a nerve once in a while.  I think I love better, and I love harder now, but I shrug off the vulnerabilities that are tied to that love.  I’ve told that to my significant other. . .  you can revel in my kindness and love, but you’ll never get in close enough to break my heart again.  

That’s not right.

Is it? I mean, it’s a different kind of love, I think.  It’s not the relationship that begins with hopes and dreams intact.  It’s the relationship that begins with the broken pieces of those hopes and dreams in a bag we carry on our shoulders.  The ones at the start of our marriages were like a wall of beauty.  We glanced at them, believed in them, and wanted so badly for them to be real.  Those illusions shattered, and we were left with the scraps – and we were also left with the beauty that was made from that illusion, namely our children – the tender-hearted, fissure-hearted byproducts of a marriage gone bad.  But with that beauty comes the ache of loving them in a world gone wrong.  With the dawn comes another day of not knowing the ending, of another potential for disappointment, another day of hard work; and a bag full of pieces of a future that broke.

For my sake, regarding the first cut being the deepest, I hope I’m wrong because I know that withholding of love and vulnerability is just not right.  It’s like throwing water on a fire, but never putting it out because the longing is there.

It’s not right that life is chaotic and always too short; heartbreaking and disappointing.  Yet, just by recognizing it, I suppose I am left with hope.  The red morning light might be spitting, but it’s still coming through the shade.

Though I’d like to end with a Bruce Song, I have to leave the epilogue to Bob Seger – who recognizes what I’m saying in these words from Fire Inside:

There's a hard moon risin' on the streets tonight

 There's a reckless feeling in your heart as you head out tonight

 Through the concrete canyons to the midtown light

 Where the latest neon promises are burning bright

 

 Past the open windows on the darker streets

 Where unseen angry voices flash and children cry

 Past the phony posers with their worn out lines

 The tired new money dressed to the nines

 The low life dealers with their bad designs

 And the dilettantes with their open minds

 

 You're out on the town, safe in the crowd

 Ready to go for the ride

 Searching the eyes, looking for clues

 There's no way you can hide

 The fire inside

 

 Well you've been to the clubs and the discoteques

 Where they deal one another from the bottom of a deck of promises

 Where the cautious loners and emotional wrecks

 Do an acting stretch as a way to hide the obvious

 And the lights go down and they dance real close

 And for one brief instant they pretend they're safe and warm

 

 Then the beat gets louder and the mood is gone

 The darkness scatters as the lights flash on

 They hold one another just a little too long

 And they move apart and then move on

 

 On to the street, on to the next

 Safe in the knowledge that they tried

 Faking the smile, hiding the pain

 Never satisfied

 The fire inside

 Fire inside

 

 Now the hour is late and he thinks you're asleep

 You listen to him dress and you listen to him leave

 like you knew he would

 You hear his car pull away in the street

 Then you move to the door and you lock it when

 he's gone for good

 

 Then you walk to the window and stare at the moon

 Riding high and lonesome through a starlit sky

 And it comes to you how it all slips away

 Youth and beauty are gone one day

 No matter what you dream or feel or say

 It ends in dust and disarray

 

 Like wind on the plains, sand through the glass

 Waves rolling in with the tide

 Dreams die hard and we watch them erode

 But we cannot be denied

 The fire inside

A Carving for the Soul

There is a basic theme that runs through nearly every discussion I have with my children, and though it’s not a deliberate theme, it just sort of presents itself in the lessons I feel I am inherently required to deliver.  It is one of character.  More specifically, it is the character trait of being mindful, cognizant, or self-aware. 

The other day, Paige and Tony were giggling when I walked into the bathroom closest to my bedroom – I guess you’d call it the master bathroom, or simply, my bathroom.  When I asked why they were giggling, they said, “Move the candle.”  I moved the candle to see that “Tony” had been carved into the wood, and there was a cute smiley face in the “O” and a nice little heart beside his name.  I immediately thought it was Paige, simply because of the embellishments. 

“Not funny, Paige.”  I answered. 

“Yeah, not funny, Paige.”  Tony mimicked and giggled.

“It wasn’t me!  I only drew the smiley face and the heart.  Tony carved his name.”

So, they were both guilty, and I was a bit upset, though the table was pretty old, and the carving might have actually made it look better.  But they didn’t need to know this.

They know they’re in the most trouble when I don’t speak after they’ve misbehaved.  I didn’t speak.  This was right before bed, so they said, “No more TV for the rest of the day?”  Still I didn’t speak.  “No more electronics for the rest of the day?” They tried again. 

“Go to bed.  Your punishment will be waiting for you in the morning.”  They went off to bed without another peep.

In the morning, Paige was the first to come down.  She put on her cartoons.  I shut them off.  When she started to blame it all on Tony, I kind of lost my wits; and though I didn’t speak the anger, she knew something was up.  I let her go on and on about how if Tony hadn’t carved his name, she wouldn’t have carved the heart and the smiley face.  (She might someday make a good lawyer).  When I didn’t answer, she got frustrated, and the tears came.  “I shouldn’t be punished, Tony did it!”

I just looked at her, and said, “Do you buy that as a sound argument? Do you think it’s fair that I punish Tony and not you?  Are you saying you did nothing wrong?”

I got all those questions in because she didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t incriminate her and relieve her of her punishment.  She wanted to argue (because she’s good and annoying at it, like her mother, I suppose), but she couldn’t.

“Take a minute and think about it, Paige.  My job is for you to figure out the right thing, so that you can build your character.  This punishment and my anger right now isn’t about you carving the stuff into the table, it’s because you and your brother seem to be defending it, and assuming I’ll take it lightly.  It goes to consequence for your actions, and ultimately, respect.”

She didn’t say anything.  When Tony came down, I heard her whisper, “Mommy’s thinking about our punishment.  She’s mad that we carved your name, but she’s madder that we laughed about it.” 

She got the gist.

After a few minutes of their squirming while I did my morning workout, I said, “I’m going swimming.”

It was 7:30 in the morning on Friday, before work. 

Both of them jumped up and got on their swimsuits.  They came running back downstairs, and said, “We’re ready.”

“Perfect, go get your shoes on.”  They couldn’t figure it out.

“While I am swimming, you two will be picking the weeds out of the garden.  You don’t have to get all of them, but I want you to get the ones that are around the tomato plants.”  They ran to the window and looked out.

There were a lot of weeds to pick, but aside from a little whine, they looked resigned to completing the task.

“Is this our punishment?  Once we do it, that’s it?”  Paige asked with Tony nodding beside her.

“We’ll see how well you do.  And try not to argue, I want to enjoy my swim.”  I walked outside and got in the pool.

They argued for a little bit, complained that it was hot (90⁰), and that it was too hard.  I glanced at them over the edge of the pool, and said, “This water’s awesome.  You might want to speed it up because I have to get in the shower and get ready for work.”  At that point, they started to work.  After fifteen minutes of silence, I glanced over and saw that they had removed nearly every weed (and there were a lot!).  They saw me watching, but kept at it.

“Alright, that’s good.  Come on in!”  Both of them jumped in the pool and hugged me.

“Don’t do it again.” 

“We won’t. . .” 

It seemed to have worked, and I have a pretty powerful punishment tool now.  I only pray that the lesson sinks in when they’re about to do something even worse.

So that’s the theme - - - be mindful and self-aware, and cognizant of the character you’re creating.

Unfortunately, it is not a theme that runs through all the discussions I have with myself, if I’m honest. The being self-aware part, not the character part. I am hoping that by writing about it, and bringing it to the surface, I can stop it from being a recluse. 

I think we all fall victim to those days when things aren’t going their best; when all you want to do is hide under the covers or hide inside a book, or anything else that will stop the world from spinning far too close to that personal space.  These are the days when that one tenet of human nature – self-awareness – tries to cuddle up beside me, and get lost as well. 

I can’t be the only person that does this.  I know I’m not the only person that does this.  Some people take drugs, get drunk, start a major project and don’t stop working; some people go shopping, some people jump out of airplanes, some people get lost in religious vehemence – anything to avoid considering why they want to escape in the first place.

I did it for a long time.  I recognized that writing was the one place where I couldn’t avoid the ultimate surfacing of my emotional insides.  They have a way of writing themselves out into the open.

Like Paige blaming Tony when she was just as culpable, I tend to do that when I feel crappy about myself.  I blame the rain for not allowing me to clean my back deck; I blame work for not allowing me to write; I blame others for having opinions and thoughts that differ from my own.  I conjure up excuses for not writing, when if I would just take the time to think about it, I’d realize that I’m not writing because I want to avoid not being able to write; I’m not cleaning my windows (whatever the task!) because they’ll just get dirty again. . . or if I get angry at someone or something, I find excuses to blame them or it, rather than dig deep to figure out why I’m angry and why I’m letting it control me to the point where I don’t want to do anything but open that book or hide under those covers.

Maybe it’s a waste of time to keep trying to figure out the world.  Maybe it’s an excuse to stop living in it.  Or maybe it’s the only way, for me personally, to get moving. 

Oddly enough, when Tony carved his name, and Paige made it pretty, they gave me the string of words I needed to make sense of what I had been considering for nearly a week.  They gave me the words I needed in order to answer the “whys”.

There are consequences to be considered.  There are tasks to be completed.  There are priorities that need to be discovered.  One of which is the priority of the self.

For me, it’s the self that wants to ramble on and on in order to have an excuse to do what I love to do, and to continue to figure out who I am.  I realize that now.

And if the ramblings come to an end for the day, I can always go pick weeds out of the garden, and hope for another lesson from it.

"Marco!"

I already missed a day this week with writing.  It wasn’t on purpose, and it wasn’t because I didn’t have anything to write about, but time, baby, time gets away a lot these days. 

Last night, the kids and I swam for a couple hours.  We do our exercises (jumping jacks, arm circles, bicycle kicks, etc.), then we get on the basketballs and play a fun version of chicken (first one to lose the ball, loses that match), and yet another game where I think of a color and they try to guess what it is.  I cradle them in my arms, and for every wrong answer, I get to dunk them.  When they get it right, I flip them over.  Last night the color I picked was “wheat.”  Poor Tony got dunked for twenty minutes before I started reciting lines from Little Red Hen, “Who will help me take this______ to the mill?”  “Not I,” said the dog.  “Not I,” said the duck.  “Not I,” said the cat.   He finally got it.

This transcended into one of our favorite games to play, usually when we’re eating dinner.  It’s called, “What’s my Favorite?”

I started it.

“What’s my favorite book?” 

Tony screamed it out, “To Kill a Mockingbird!”  He’s been paying attention.

“What’s my favorite Bruce song?”  They guessed ‘em all  - Thunder Road, Glory Days, My City of Ruins, American Land. . . Nope, nope, nope, nope.  Finally, Paige really concentrated, I could almost hear the music playing in her head.  She closed her eyes for a second, and then yelled, “Racing in the Street!”  I gave it to her, it was a good guess.  (For the record, I go back and forth between a lot of his songs - - - Backstreets, Maria’s Bed, Further On Up the Road. . .)

“What’s my favorite beverage?” Tony screamed, “Wine!”  Paige screamed, “Coffee!”

It went on for a short time.  Then it was Tony’s turn.

“What’s my favorite tree of all these trees?”  He asked this, pointing to about fifty trees.  I got it right on the second guess.  Next question, “Which is my favorite blade of grass?”  When Paige and I rolled our eyes, he changed it to “What’s my favorite block on MineCraft?”  Paige got it within seconds.  (Butter)

Then it was Paige’s turn.

“What is my favorite natural resource?”  I giggled and said, “You are so very different from your brother.”  We guessed all the natural resources.  When we finally gave up, she looked at us like we were so stupid.  “Flint rock, duh.”

How could I have missed that one?

Her next question puzzled me.

“What’s my favorite phrase that Mommy says?”

“I love you?”  I asked.  She shook her head.

“Mama. . .”  Tony said whenever he’s checked out.

I made a few guesses, like, “Get your butt over here and clean your room,” or “Enzo, you little bastard. . .”

When I gave up, she said her favorite phrase that I say is, “I’ve gotta fix my face.”  I didn’t even know I said it, but apparently I say it nearly every morning while I put my makeup on.

Not much to write about today, but a simple way of checking in, and keeping account, I guess. . .

"Polo!"

Back at It

It’s a lot different trying to write at home after returning from vacation. 

The room that houses my desk also houses the “dog couch” and it smells like dog. More specifically, it smells like the little bastard, Enzo.  I clean the cover every weekend, and for reasons known to all, I was not able to do so this weekend because I was on a mini-vacation.

I put the dog couch in the same room as my desk so that Gracie can adore me while I balance my checking account or check my emails. Gracie is ten years old.  She smiles when I walk in the door, and her whole body wags with joy.  I am her girl.  While I mow, she follows me up one row, down the other, up another row, down the other until I point to the house and tell her to go.  She sits in the center of the lawn, and watches me.  If I stop mowing to pick up a branch or a ball in my way, she’s up and at my side.  To see a ten year old dog with a suspected torn ACL trotting to meet me, well, you can imagine how it makes me feel. . .  If you can’t, it’s a combination of heartbreaking and tender, guilty and proud.  I get tears in my eyes just thinking about it.  She's my girl.

Anyway, I am writing in a different space.  With the headphones on, it’s almost like I’m in the cabin on the mountaintop surrounded by nothing, and I feel like I had another day of vacation.  Today, rather than get up whenever, linger over coffee and conversation, stretch my arms to the bright sun and test my writing fingers: 

·         I went into work straight from the return trip, had a quick meeting, and then finished the vacation day.

·         I picked the kids up from their Dad's.

·         I returned license plates to the MVA because I received the third notice that if I didn’t return them, my license would be suspended.

·         The lawn looked like a field, and so had to be mowed.

·         The new pool filter came in (because the other one was shot), so that had to be assembled and hooked to the pool.

·         The mower ran out of gas a quarter of the way through the mow, and so Tony and I ran to the gas station to fill it.

·         My truck was empty too.

·         Gracie finally ate something.  She gets depressed and distressed when I’m gone, and opts not to eat but to howl the entire time.

·         Paige had me call her friend’s mom, to set up a play date.

·         I brought the garbage can up from the curb, and emptied the stuffed mailbox, sorting through the garbage I would keep and the garbage I would track.

·         Got chased out of the kitchen by Tony because I was singing a Taylor Swift song very loudly, and he’s not a fan.

·         Made dinner.

·         Ate dinner.

·         Answered a phone call, and laughed with a good friend.

And now, I sit writing at the kitchen table, overlooking Gracie and two kids who are already in their pajamas (the kids, not Gracie) and watching yet another episode of Malcolm in the Middle. 

As much as I enjoyed the trip, I look over the laptop screen and I see Tony on the sofa, concentrating hard on his game of MineCraft (soon to be disappointed when I take away the iPod to cuddle) and Paige curled up on the chair, snug in a blanket and holding her Eeyore, and Gracie in her chair, sleepy but attentive to every stroke I make on this keyboard (and I know the instant I close the top, she’ll be at my side).

Enzo is sitting in the other room, on the stinky couch, barking at squirrels.

So, I guess I’m writing to say that a cabin in the woods for two days without the noise of the daily intake and uptake is great and the view is fantastic.

And I think I am also writing to say that the daily intake and uptake is here and mine, and the view is fantastic.

It’s good to be home.

 

Take it In, It's Free

Not much to this picture, I suppose.  I snapped it while taking a walk along the mountain top.  It's a State Route.  Around the bend, it dips, and if it was snowing and I was on a sled, it would be a hell of a ride.  At the bottom of the dip, it goes back up.

I had my headphones on and I walked it.  Up and down, and around the bend.  I stripped off a layer and wrapped it around my waist.  I wiped the sweat from my lip.  I looked up and over, where a hillside of cattle grazed lazily.  I glanced to the left when I turned around that bend, and I saw a woman working in a garden the size of my backyard, her husband tending to the lawn beside their house.  When they saw me, they waved.  I waved back, and thought about how easy it was to find goodness.

It was there that I stopped to take it all in.

As I sat on the hillside and gazed at the cows, I could only think one thing: the insignificance of the “things” in my life. There's no meaning in clothes and SUVs, no significance in cell phones, computers or shoes.

 It all purports to nothing.

I stared at the golden hillside, one white cow strewn with the black, and started to dream. My eyes scanned the horizon and life moved in slow motion for the first time in a long time.  The unhurried movement gave great meaning to the pace we all live when we have jobs and responsibilities that interrupt the simple act of gratitude for having lived. Thoughts of my toothless children in diapers gave way to full sets of teeth and underpants that gave way to big beds and iPods, and somehow, despite their growth being a reality, it didn’t feel real in that moment.  And I realized, with some dismay, that had I not come to this hillside and gazed into the endless sky, another year might have passed without recognizing just how quickly it passes; I might have allowed another year to slip by without the brief visit into nostalgia, without the replay of how far I’ve come, how high I’ve climbed. 

Breathing mountain air has a way of leaving you breathless.

And the ultimate truth I found was that clothes and SUVs, cell phones, computers and shoes can never compete with what we get to experience for free - - the scent of a flower, the curve in a road, the fog on a mountain top in the distance, a wave coming into shore, snowflakes falling, the vision of laughter on your child’s face, sharing in the smile, the warmth of a hug from someone you’ve been missing, the memory of love, of love, of love. . .

And the dreaming and reality give way to the desire for something simpler.  I could sell the car, sell the house, quit the job - - - live more simply.  I could live so that I’m not living to pay out, but to take in all the expansive beauty offered to me.

It was nice to slow down and to dream, and to recognize that there are choices out there, even if it’s impossible for me to take them.  Selling the house, selling the car, quitting the job. . . not so simple.

And that’s okay.  It’s really okay.

Obsession

A couple months ago, I read the book titled Bruce (aka my best friend, Bruce Springsteen).  It’s kind of weird to read a book about your best friend, and not know the full story of his growth and success.  Like anyone else, his eccentricities affected those that were closest to him.  Some people were offended by him, while others became the offspring of his success.  In the end, though Bruce could be a jerk, judged against the standards I’ve encountered as a “nice girl”, it was his obsession to perfect his talent that made him a success.  This is my humble opinion, and Bruce might disagree.  He might say that he wasn’t trying to perfect his talent as much as he was trying to live with his eccentricities in a world that wasn’t quite fair.

If I were to read the headlines or listen to the news that permeates our U.S. as “top stories”, I’d hear about husbands killing their pregnant wives, mothers smothering their children, or millionaire athletes - - - supposed heroes - - - attempting to get away with murder.

As a woman who has her own quirkiness to contain, and who knows people who harbor a condition that many might diagnose as obsessive-compulsive disorder, and who has had Bruce as her best friend since she was around 8 years old, might know that these headlines hurt at the core sometimes.

Don’t we all think that our standards and norms are the right ones?  I know a few people who can lie without remorse, cheat with justification and simply mold what I might define as “wrong” into something they justify as “right”.  Who hasn’t been a victim of that? And who hasn’t judged the actions of that kind of person?

Sometimes I think that I might be the one that is clearly effed up.  I mean, why does it hurt so much sometimes when I come across people who vehemently disagree that there is a higher power at play somewhere?  Why does it hurt so much to know that men and women around the world choose to walk away from their spouses and their children, and never look back?

I guess it goes back to that “justification” argument.  I can freely acknowledge that when I am unable to see beyond myself, I insist that my moral compass points to the right way all the time.  Yet, when I acknowledge the actions of people around the world - - good and evil, alike - - I sometimes feel like I am off-kilter.

I have been told by my friends, family and bosses at work that I am “too” nice.  My therapist, shortly after the split-up of my marriage, labeled me the same way.  Too nice.

BECAUSE NICE MATTERS

That’s my obsession.  Because quite honestly, when I lose my cool (mostly at work and when dealing with tired children), I often go on a diatribe of why I’m right and they’re wrong, and it makes me feel lousy about myself.  I finish the diatribe and I am instantaneously filled with remorse.

I don’t like that feeling at all, at all, at all.

So I obsess about being nice, and by doing so, I end up aggravating the people who think I should have a stronger back-bone, and that I should at least stay angry for more than ten minutes.

And you know what else I do?  I get aggravated by people who aren’t like me.  I get annoyed at people who offer love in different ways - - who, instead of being obsessed about being nice, are obsessed with being honest, or hard-workers, or gift-givers.

I think I need a different obsession, honestly.

How about I become obsessed with exercise?  Or writing? Or keeping in touch with my friends and siblings? Or cleaning my house? Or spending every extra moment with my babies? Or focus solely on my needs and wants, without regard for anyone else? Or, like Bruce, seek perfection to the point of scrapping hours of work?

I don’t know what is right and what is effed up anymore.

Maybe my obsession should be trying to figure that out.  Or maybe I should just turn off the headlines, ignore the idiots and put on my headphones, search for the product of Bruce’s obsession for perfection on my iPod and listen to the live version of Racing in the Street for the thousandth time, and not worry about it anymore.

Yes, that would be nice.  So I shall do just that.

Enchanted

There was a time when I would sit in front of the laptop with a feeling of joy and exuberance.  Finally!  My escape was waiting.  The day would begin and end with writing.  I recall sitting and not thinking about what topic I would get to, and not worrying about it either because it would just come to me, like a snappy comeback that I didn’t even know was funny until everyone who heard it, laughed.

Today, I took the day off from work.  Drove to a quiet cottage in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere to find the snappy comeback, because I no longer feel joy and exuberance when I sit down to write.  I feel dread, and guilt, and fat and ugly and stupid.  I feel like a wannabe, a has-been-who-never-was, a failure and a cheat - - - not at all like the girl who often wrote without judgment, and with the sole purpose of maybe, just maybe, making someone laugh or cry, think or get angry. 

The cottage sits a half mile off the main road, at the end of a dirt road.  It sits nestled on a plateau in the lower part of the mountain.  The furniture on the front porch is made of untouched wood - - - thin and thick branches, and twisted limbs, measured and corded together to form the porch, the rails and railing, the chairs, the tables. The worn chair cushions are the only parts that God didn’t create on the first or second day.

Upon entering the premises, the air is saturated with the resonating sound of a waterfall that fills a pond filled with Koi fish, built into the side of a steep hill that is brandished with flowers.  There is no perfection in the structure of the hillside, which makes it perfect for the senses - - the dreams, the hopes, the wishes, the truth and the purity of what is real.  It touches those other senses too.

The stone chimney, built up the entire wall of the cottage stands over a fully living roof - - 3 ½ tons of living sod, growing wild flowers and various plants indigenous to the mountain.  The flies are leaving me alone; and I haven’t seen the bear that is known to make its appearance around these parts.

Jackson Browne begins one of his songs with these lines:  “What with all my expectations long abandoned and a future I no longer saw my hand in, how I found you is beyond my understanding. . .”

This cottage makes me think of those lines; and it makes me smile when I think of my companion on this trip.  For the past year and a half, he is the closest I’ve had to a best friend in quite a long time.  Though he doesn’t quite understand my need to be writing in the mountains, he has a sense of how it makes me part whole.  He has a sense that if I write, even that sucky, crappy writing I envision myself writing lately, I will somehow find another piece of myself that will send me back into a motion that propels me forward, toward a more mature growth and understanding of whatever it is I need to understand. 

Sometimes I get the sense that those who love me the most, know me better than even I know myself.

They pull me out of myself too; like pulling a rabbit out of a hat.  The rabbit often stares in awe after being drawn into the light.    The rabbit remembers being a baby, entertaining glee and giddiness, facing challenges, trapping hope, enduring pain.  The rabbit stares and remembers, and sometimes chooses to jump back into the hat until he his pulled out again and again and again.

I feel like that rabbit.  Lately, my uniqueness will become fastened to the hand of a loved one, and sadly, with the first hint of light, it often retreats back inside.

Despite the constant breeze rolling from the mountain, the sun, unaccompanied by the bank of gray clouds that sits on the horizon line, radiates a sweltering heat as it hangs high above me.

I’ve decided to retreat back inside.

There is a scent of a recent fire in the chimney that brings to mind a dying campfire, red embers that look soft enough to touch.  The sound of the waterfall resonates through the pine walls of the cottage, and through the headphones I have in my ears.  I just noticed, and I have no idea how it took me so long to see it, but a brown bear rug is lying across a worn leather sofa.

And I sense it again - - that feeling of knowing myself even less than others know me.

 During the week, I told everyone who would listen that I wouldn’t be available on Friday.  I told them that I was taking the day off, and that I would not be checking email or answering my phone, or returning texts.  I told them that I was off to write.

“What do you write?”  One person asked.

“Nothing.”  I answered.

Imagine the curious look.

“That’s why I’m going.”  I left it at that.

Others didn’t believe it.  Generally, a day off for me equals at least four hours of work anyway.  So, of course, I was invited to join meetings and conference calls - - - my cell phone alerting me to every invitation.  About halfway through the trip, I went to my settings and turned off my alert status.

Even if it’s just for this weekend, I want to be a rabbit that hops with glee and pain, hope and fear, tenderness and regret.  The rabbit that decides to glow in the senses - - - the dreams, the hopes, the wishes, the truth and the purity of what is real.

The rabbit who appreciates that she is loved.

The rabbit who finds gratitude that she is truly known by those she loves in return.

Insanity Makes Me Crazy Happy

Good morning to you all!  Happy Wednesday!  Happy May 1st!  Happy Birthday to my nephew, James! (I love you a lot, a lot).

This morning, as I struggled to follow two bladder-filled dogs down the stairs, I was reminded of my newest habit.  With every step, my hamstrings yelped, my ass cheeks screamed (who knew there was muscle under them?) and my calf muscles tightened up.  Yet, with every step, my smile grew bigger.

And I was reminded of one of my brother's favorite jokes:  "No pain, no pain."

Of course with that thought, I laughed.  Why wouldn't I laugh and be merry after eight solid hours of sleep for the thirteenth day in a row?  Why wouldn't I laugh and be merry with the thought that work awaits and I am no longer stressed and looking like a zombie every morning?  And looky here, I have enough energy to both sip my coffee and write a little diddy.

It seems that the Insanity workout, despite being insane and painful, provides a great deal of gains. 

I don't know if you've ever seen the infomercials for the workout, but I remember many mornings sitting in my chair, sipping my coffee while watching, and thinking, "That looks hard."

Then in one crazy moment, I decided that it looked hard enough to try.  So I got the discs from a friend, and started to move.

The first day, after about 6 minutes of warm-up, I had to rest, get back up, rest, get back up.  Both Paige and Tony watched me struggle through the entire 45 minutes, all the while giggling and saying, "Mommy, you don't look like the people doing the exercises.  They haven't fallen over eighteen times, and tripped into the wall."

The response I wanted to give, as the sweat poured down my face and into my eyes, and as my lungs screamed for mercy was, "Shut it, you little mongrels.  They are getting paid to do this, they are trained and have been doing this workout for months, they are no more perfect than me!"  But instead I said, "Ugh," and dropped to the floor in the final two minutes of stretches.

Now, nearly two weeks later, I laugh - - - ha, ha, ha! - - - and though I am still dropping to the floor with exhaustion, I am doing it with a sense of satisfaction.

I think I might have a set of abs somewhere near my stomach because I swear I can feel them, and I can see a slight change in the way my shirts fall over the mini muffin top I've baked for the past couple of years.

The odd thing is, I didn't start the workout so I could lose weight.  I started it so I could lose stress, gain sleep and find my mojo again with writing.

It seems to have worked.
I'm feeling pretty good now. 
Insanely good.

January 27th: Still Spinning

               

               The words still come once in a while, and they’ll roll toward me and away again, toward me and away.  If I have the wherewithal I will bend down and scoop them up: conglomerate, pinnacle, obeisance - - - just words.  I honor their tenacity and stubbornness, and I am flattered that they still come forth, ready to be used, given my complete disregard for them over the past few years.

                Not too long ago, as I drove into work with Springsteen as my companion, singing of Life Itself (rushing over me, life itself, in the wind and black elms, life itself in your heart and in your eyes, and I can’t make it without you), I was reminded of the world that spun when that song first came out.  It was a world filled with lush greens, a world filled with laughter and smiles, kindness and ease.  It was a world without death, a world without sorrow, a world that rotated so effortlessly. 

As I drove, I realized that on the day that I had heard that song for the very first time, my world hiccupped in its rotation, and skipped like a record that had been spearheaded. As I played the words over in my mind - - - I can’t make it without you - - - I recalled the landscape of that massive world as it torpedoed into a tunnel of darkness and fear that had housed itself into an even darker abyss of the anonymity and alienation.

Yet it still spun.  The tunnel of darkness and fear, alienation and anonymity was just a facet of the continued world.  It was a long tunnel to get through, and it is now a permanent fixture of the new world.  I recognize that as my world moved through that tunnel, desperate to reach its end, I had left some things along the way:  Drama, worry, fear.  Sleep, exercise, confidence.

I recognized that as my world moved through that tunnel, desperate to reach its end, a new president had become known, a new war had emerged on terrain that I would never see, a new celebrity died from an overdose of being a celebrity, Brad and Angelina had another kid, scientists discovered another breakthrough, more diets emerged, and alcohol, drugs, guns, hatred, abuse, and pride ran all over the world, like termites on rotten plywood, nonplussed by my hurt.  In fact, as it spun, the words - - - juxtaposition, diaphanous, lethargy - - - shot off my forehead, pierced their way into my heart, rolled from my fingertips, or hid in the recesses of my mind; and some of them of them were left in the tunnel to toil around with my writing talent, or to cry along with the discarded willpower and confidence I had gained from having made it through a painful divorce.

I also realized that the walk through that tunnel afforded me some time to understand love, and the tenacity of love, the strength of love as it expands to cushion the pain, as it expands to embrace the sorrow of others, as it expands to allow the recognition that the excruciating pain I felt was a product of the amazing love I had in my heart, and rather than take away from it, the pain actually multiplied the love threefold.  I realized the power.

And the world still spun, looping through the tunnel, out of it, back into it, and out of it again through the wind and the black elms . . . 

As I sit here, January 27^th 2013, on the four year anniversary of the day that changed my life forever, I am reminded of love’s power, and of the power of life itself; and of a world that is still spinning in your heart and in your eyes. . .