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.