Prospective Perspectives And An Open Letter

In my dreams I am still my father’s son - playing in the park while his high school team practices. I don’t recall that park’s name in my dreams. I don’t have to. My consciousness floats from the gurgling water fountain that was too-often not working, to the little creek along the edge of the field, to the tree where my father’s sign used to hang.

I recall the old green monster of a truck that my siblings and I used to ride in, watching through rusted out holes in fascination as the street rushed by. His players used to stick me in trash cans and warn me not to move... and I remember waiting there and wondering if they would notice whether or not I had gotten out.

I remember other soccer fields with a big rock and it was there that I once asked a player why he didn’t shave his “hairy” legs. Still other fields had big hills and apple trees and tall metal lights that were hollow inside. I knocked on one of those lights one time while my mind drifted away and I heard the ringing reverb into seeming infinity... until my father insisted that I stop.

There were soccer fields by the woods where my bus would stop after dropping off the high-school kids and others across the street from summer camp. I played “indoor soccer” in gymnasiums, practiced diving headers at camp and did pendulums across the street in the gravel lot.

Those fields were miles apart and the memories probably separated by years but they might as well be one and the same. Names, exactness and distinction never matter as much as emotion in my dreams.

I used to travel to games on the bus with the high school team my father coached until I was fourteen. After the games we’d stop for food. I remember the time I ordered a whopper for myself. Not a hamburger. A whopper. That young-boy-grown-big memory sticks out in my mind and the emotion associated with it is pride.

Burger King would later sponsor the high school team when I played on it. I felt quite loyal to that company, even if I used to order a water and fill the cup with soda when I was younger. I’m still young but Burger King gives me acid reflux. Perspectives always change.

The thing is, everyone seemed so old when I was young. There is a sense of certainty associated with those memories, suggesting that the things everyone chose to do were well-informed and right. When I was little, high school seemed like the destination. I’m still young but high school was half a lifetime ago and I never once felt certain of anything when I was there. And my father never coaches soccer anymore. Perspectives always change.

I attended the elementary school that neighbored that park and that field with the gurgling water fountain and the tree and the creek that I used to play in. Classmates and I wrestled on the school’s soccer fields during recess. Five or six years later my father’s high school practices would move to those same fields that had once witnessed so much of my boyhood tumbles.

When I was in high school we built a goal-sized kicking board at that elementary school and I would sometimes jog there, dribbling a ball the whole way. I figured the kicking board would last forever and I’d master my abilities using it. We moved soon after that and I played most of my own high school career for the team that had always been my father’s greatest rival. I’m still young but that kicking board was torn down years ago. Perspectives always change.

This world is a strange place. This life is a queer existence. We seem to spend much of it either dreaming of things that have long since passed or longing for things and future ages that will fail to fulfill as imagined when we get there. Too little time is spent truly enjoying that which actually is. It’s only in moments and patches of clarity that I seem capable of lifting my head above the water and looking around at the landscape of things – capable of living life in a manner that sets out to achieve the things I would list as most important.

When I consider what matters in this world, I am drawn to a simplicity that goes beyond a goal of simply wanting to want less. It is about more than mere anti-materialism. Wanting a different life than the one I often choose isn’t a testament to dissatisfaction. I’m actually quite happy. One can be happy with life and still want to refine it. There’s ample room for more consciousness and awareness and intent in my life.

Perspectives don’t just change over years, they can change in a moment. When I get to the end of the day and consider what occupied my mind, the list is rarely made up of things that carry real import. Somehow, the hustle and bustle of life distracts so completely that it renders progress along the intended path impossible. Minor daily incremental misuse of energy adds up, too.

No child wants to grow up and be a drug addict. Many do. No child wants to grow up and be a murderer. Many do. But those examples are extreme. A simpler example is that no child wants to grow up to be rightly described as untrustworthy or to become desensitized to the suffering of others or to be a womanizer or an alcoholic. There are many and more obvious examples of personality traits, habits and moral failings we all begin to internalize and exhibit to one degree or another.

The point is that nobody wants to have these flaws, we just grow into them – whatever they are – over time and fail to find that minor moment of needed self-correction before a habit is formed. Perspectives change. Gradually. Daily. Unnoticed.

We are all born noble, yet imperfect. Mistakes will be made. Personality flaws will come to be. The goal is to, at every moment, (or as many of them as can be managed), seek after those things that would bring one’s “better self” closer. This is the mindfulness that I find elusive.

In the immediacy of everyday life, daily concerns pre-empt ultimate concerns... ultimate concerns which are taken for granted and not thought of consciously for days on end. I can look back over my life and see how my pursuits led me towards things that I no longer value. Were such pursuits wasted time? Not necessarily. Such is life, I think, and I don’t regret climbing monkey bars as a child or playing cards at coffee shops as a young adult.

The real question is how much of this is inherent in life... how much is of lasting value in terms of personal and interpersonal growth and learning... and how much is truly a pastime becoming a waste of time. The real question is how much I don’t notice – how much of my life do I fail to think is an issue because it’s easy to judge oneself by the standard of others instead of a more perfect standard. I’m still young but I imagine that I’ve truly wasted plenty of time.

I think of my own past and future but I also think of the future my son will have and the role I play in his foundational perspectives on life. Perspectives change, true, but they change by building on top of existing frameworks of thought. This life is difficult. A healthy perspective can go a long way towards navigating it effectively.

One of the interesting things about navigating life effectively is that one can only do it if he has a belief about the nature and purpose of life. What is the goal of life? One’s own personal answer determines whether or not one has lived it effectively.

Despite that we cling to them, I suspect that he goal of life is other than the accumulation of wealth in money, experience or comfort and I don’t believe for one moment that the goal of life is continued or perpetuation of life.

The goal of life is like love... or maybe it is love. Love is not easily definable or encapsulated. It is most often associated with marriage or feelings of longing and lust. Nevertheless, I love my son. I love my parents. I love my siblings. I love lamp. Each of those loves is different because love is simply an attraction of the spirit. It is unique to each combination of two things. It is only known and defined as experienced.

Life is about growth of spirit - not just in terms of a soul but also that intangible essence which radiates from within when we are passionate about something. The goal of life is to grow one’s spirit in both ways and the exactness of that goal must be self-determined and pursued.

As an early parent, my thoughts on the subject seem to revolve around and return to both God and shared experience. Our purest form of existence is in worship of God but that worship need not be exclusive and direct. Service to others is worship. Work is worship. Endeavoring to build and shape society and family and community - this is worship.

The sidekick wife and I decided a long time ago to write letters to our son. I struggled with this because what I want to say isn't encapsulated easily in words. I loved my son before I knew him. I want him to become a vibrant, dynamic force in the world. There are many wishes and desires for his life that I hold dear but I've learned that those perspectives will largely change over time and in some ways I wonder... what's the point in expressing something that I won't agree with, necessarily, in the future? I can imagine many different lives for my son to live but the reality is that none of them really matter. The events of life are meaningless. The intentions and efforts of life define everything about true reality. 

I return to thoughts of foundational perspectives on this world... but what should those perspectives be?

I have a jumble of unconnected things that seem to matter in my head. There is joy in nature. Qualities of humanity are reflected in a wooded, quiet place that one can only find by detaching himself from others. The things in life that we’ve never tried before are the things that hold the most knowledge of who we are, because new experience teaches us about ourselves. Nothing is ever static unless we choose it to be. Serving others, learning about others, truly seeking to understand the whys and hows that guide other people as they attempt to navigate the same world with the same pitfalls – these are actions that are of value. They’re more results than the impetus, however.

In the end, the foundational perspective of life that matters is a recognition of who we are – that we are noble beings created by God. I can imagine many outcomes that would seemingly bring me joy in this world. I want my son to be intelligent, caring, to impact his community, to find love, to give love, to exhibit a multitude of virtues. All of those outcomes would bring me joy... but if they don’t stem from a recognition of his true self, they’re only partial parenting victories.

Some perspectives change like rays of the sun emanating from the center. All are progressions forward. Only the direction is different but that direction completely changes the path the ray will take as it moves out into the universe.

Others perspectives don’t change and I guess that those are the perspectives that truly matter. This world is not the end. It is a step along the way. Given my belief that the next world is spiritual in nature, spiritual capacity and qualities are what I'd like to assist my son to focus on throughout his life. In the end, his own investigation of reality may lead him to believe other than I do... but if his beliefs about this world arise from a true attempt to consider life, self, the possibility of a higher being and what that means about how he should live... then whatever he chooses is a result of his relationship with God, no matter what form that relationship takes over time.

Everything else in this world stems from that and there are near infinite directions it can take a person. In looking back at my own life, I am left with the realization that my son's immediate concerns aren't overly important. He will play and he will grow. He may ultimately choose to be an athlete, an engineer, an accountant, a pioneer, a teacher. He may change his mind and go in a new direction, grow in a new direction. After all, his perspectives on life will evolve as my own did.

All of his potential directions are of value if they emanate from that relationship with God. I’d be happy with any of them.

Bouncing Beauty

I paced the floor, lightly bouncing with each step as my hand tapped out a slow, soft beat against my son's back and he flexed his legs in the moment nearest sleep as if to leap out of my arms like a frog into the water.

Too soon he was still, this child yet filled with wonder and learning and fresh life. Too soon he was slightly awake again as I fretted whether or not to pick him back up and bounce until he was safely lost once more in his world of frogs.

There is exquisite beauty in even the smallest things life has to offer. I thank God for the opportunity to raise and be raised by this child whose exploration of life reawakens my perception of subtle joy.

Adopting The Iceberg

My life, less dynamic, always seems full of interesting and unpredicted juxtaposition.

One such juxtaposition was experienced this week as I sat in a hospital room feeling terrified for my son as he underwent tests and got poked / prodded by needles of various sorts... while at the same time I was all-too aware that many of those occupying the rooms around me were experiencing more difficult situations than my own.

When I step back from the immediacy of the personally impact-full matters of the past two days, I feel that my family of three got of easy. I thank God for that leniency and I pray that I never experience worse. Considering this, I feel somewhat compelled to acknowledge those who have the strength to endure, (and have endured), more than me in this too-oft bittersweet world.

As humans we are filled to overflowing with an immense capacity to overcome - to grow and sink our roots deeper despite stormy weather. It's one thing to know this, as I feel we all do somewhere in the deepest deep-down parts of our beings, but it's something all-together more powerful to personally taste the tip of the iceberg that others have struck head-on... and to want to run away while full knowing that these others still maintained the course to a vibrant and meaningful life. Some even adopt the iceberg when it becomes a constant and unyielding part of their lives.

To all such people who adopt the iceberg, in part or in full, as required by life: You know who you are, even if I don't, and you impress me, even if I don't often say so.

Scrambled Honeymoon Brain Eggs

I had spent the past few weeks living in my in-law’s basement.  It would soon be my home - our apartment downstairs.  When families left respective homes in Wisconsin and Indiana to meet in Wilmette, IL... I travelled south towards... not with... Clan Black.  It was the beginning of the future.

Together we prepped the reception hall and went to dinner as a two-family meet and greet. My nephew Caspian was crying at dinner so I walked him around the block in a stroller... a prelude to the responsible, full-grown man that I figured I had to be.  “I’ve got it.  I’ll handle it.  Let’s go outside Caspian.” We came together as families.  Our corporal selves met somewhere near the physical middle of respective homes, mirroring the marriage that would follow. 

My family stayed together in a family friend’s spare house that night.  I don’t recall whose house or what street it was on exactly, but it was near(ish) to the Baha’i temple.  My eldest sister had split from her husband at some point previous... so in a way, despite the addition of my nephews, that night was the end of an era renewed.  We were together as the distinct family unit of my childhood for the last time.

This world moves ever-forward.  All things are eventually lost to time by simple definition of existence, yet willingly giving up that which represented my first memories and greatest, most innocent joys was hard.  My family has long since splintered to the Carolinas and North Dakota by way of New Orleans, but it was my own separation from them that caused a wound that will never heal.  We all carry scars of one sort of another.

I don’t recall being nervous or questioning my decision, but I experienced something akin to pre-emptive nostalgia.  I didn’t dread sleep that final night so much as I had trouble letting go of the family I had known.  More than just physical location and the finality of my life’s relocation to Wisconsin, I knew that things would never be the same after I went to bed.

It’s all a bittersweet haze, but I remember my sister warming her voice in the bathroom early the next morning and how it filled the house with prayer.

We made our way over to the reception hall where final preparations were being made and Shelly was trying to finish her own wedding cake.  It was the first of many times since that she proved to be a woman capable of anything... including choosing to do too much.  She had partially iced the cake the night before and was trying to finish it with a smooth coat that seemed to be as impossible to achieve as my holding onto the moments of that last night had been.  Shelly was getting frustrated on her wedding day morning.

In the type of wisdom which can only be borne of true and complete ignorance, my smirking twenty year old self introduced levity to the moment by swiping a finger through the icing that she couldn’t perfect.  I popped the iced finger in my mouth, dodging the half-hearted slap she threw my way.  I would have disarmed her with my best smile, too, had it not been for the nasty garlic flavor that was punching my tongue.

As it turns out, a particularly garlic-heavy potato salad had been stored in the fridge over-night... more or less directly under the nearly-finished wedding cake.  The flavor had absorbed into the icing and my pestering of the cook had saved the day.  Shelly proved for the second time that she was capable of anything.  She scraped the cake clean, made a new batch of icing and started over on her own wedding cake just hours before the ceremony.

The lake weather was cold that day, but Shelly managed to suffer through the ceremony in the pink dress that gave her grandmother nightmares.  The answer to‘Who gets married in a non-white dress?’ is: Awesome women, capable of rising above nonsense stereotypes and preconceived ideas.  We had put together a pretty non-standard wedding, though not entirely in the way we had initially planned.

For my part, I got married in an un-ironed pair of slacks, shoes, and a shirt from Walmart.  The tie was from Walgreens.  We had a piñata and a potluck at our reception.  At one point we were going to send out postcards as wedding invites, but that idea was squished by family.  We were married in a garden at the Baha’i Temple which has since been entirely redesigned.  The only video we have of the ceremony itself is half-crooked because cameras were discouraged as a means of emphasizing the spiritual portion of the ceremony, so a friend discreetly left his running but didn’t look at it.

We had planned the ceremony out together but had never really discussed how things would start.  There was no preacher, no central figure to organize things.  After about 15 minutes I just started talking and eventually everyone shut up.  When it came time to say our vows, I went first.  I took some time to collect myself and commit to the words.  As I’ve been told since, that pause wasn’t as short as it seemed and it made certain others nervous.  As I’ve personally decided since, that pause was exactly as long as it needed to be.

We privately exchanged rings inside the temple, giddy and nervous despite the seriousness.  As we took photos in the garden... sometimes with the people we expected... sometimes not... others headed to the reception.  There was little to do at the reception, but we kept busy doing it.  I remember only a few things.

In my opinion a marriage is between the two people and God.  The big ceremony and reception are for family and unity.  It was important for us to have a wedding that featured and was geared towards children instead of excluding them.  I definitely remember getting the piñata going and my nephew’s ill-fated rescue attempt of Sponge Bob.  The only other strong memories I have are of fretting over music, slow dancing in front of what felt like a million-billion judging eyes and stealing off to a back room to unwrap gifts and cards so that we could get our finances together for the road trip we were to embark on immediately following the reception.

I still have issues with dancing and/or, really, doing anything in public until I feel like I know what I’m doing.

We drove away from the reception in my wife’s red Pontiac Bonneville feeling somewhat like the couple looked at the end of The Graduate.  Up until that point we’d known what to expect and we had things to do and were busy.  We’d never really known what all to do after it was all done.  That sort of ‘being’ not ‘doing’ felt unnatural.

Off we went on an adventure.  The rest of that night is nobody’s business, but we’d waited and that still makes me happy.  We had Mexican of some sort for dinner.

We had a generic route through Colorado mapped out but had no set stopping points.  We listened to music the whole way and dreamed of our future.  I still listen to the same music to this day, though less often... and whenever I do, I’m transported back to that red Pontiac Bonneville heading west and looking at my wife sleeping as I drove.

We got an oil change somewhere along the way and they cut our brake lines.  I couldn’t stop in the slightest as I pulled away.  An older me would have gotten angry.  A younger me half-believed them when they said it must have been a coincidence that the breaks went out right then and we were lucky it wasn’t on a mountain... half-believed and half just wanted to move on with life.

My brain sponge has retained many memories of our honeymoon - from Shelly getting cat-called in a Denver hotel parking lot, to trying to climb a path up a mountain and getting passed by old ladies with canes as we took a much needed break, to driving to the top of a mountain where we were about the clouds and it was hot but there was still snow on the ground.  All in all, the things I remember the most are the unplanned moments both good and bad.  Honeymoons are much like life in that way.

Life is not made up of moments.  It is made up of the many brightly colored details hiding in everyday activities that highlight joy and pain and sorrow and exhilaration like the pulsing of the heart cycling blood through the body.

The place we were most excited to visit on our honeymoon was Arches National Park.  Once there, however, we got overheated and sun-squinted ourselves to insane headaches.  The phallic rock formation was funny but otherwise we were ready to go back to lusher, greener, climates.

We got directions to a swimming hole from a hotel worker near Arches and planned to stop there on our way out of town.  We got lost a few times but finally found it... then chickened out and didn’t go.  We would have had to leave our car and venture off down a path that went, we assumed but didn’t know for sure, to a mountain spring.  Something about that felt a little too similar to the beginning of a poorly written horror movie and at the very least we didn’t want our car stolen or broken into.

We didn’t own digital cameras and took a lot of pictures.  We don’t really have the negatives anymore, but the only pictures that never worked out were the ones from Arches... mainly because we apparently didn’t load any film.  Back then you didn’t know that there was no film inside a camera until you got to the end of where a roll was supposed to be and the “film” kept advancing anyway.  The closest thing we have is a picture I took (with another camera) of Shelly taking a picture of a flower.  Utah sucked in general.  We went back to Colorado on highway 666, I think, and saw some pretty gigantic dust devils along the way.

We had planned to camp the entire trip, but stayed in hotels far more often.  The one time we truly camped was when we stopped near Mesa Verde.  We took a bumpy dirt road back to a campsite so wild that when we woke up early in the morning it wasn’t a passionate imagination that had me thinking about wild horses... it was actual wild horses running around our tent.  We lost, then found a hubcap on that damn bumpy road.

At Mesa Verde we ate an entire watermelon in one sitting.  Among other things, Utah was a dehydrating climate.  I liked Mesa Verde, though it felt like a museum and I don’t like museums as much as nature.

We were too young to rent hotels at the tender ages of twenty, so we’d usually pick a stopping place and call ahead.  Before the advent of smart-phones, this meant stopping at visitor centers and picking up coupon magazines.  I’d use a man-voice when I called hotels and made sure to mention my wife... then I pre-paid with a credit card.  By the time we showed up, nobody asked questions.  This worked like a charm until Durango.

We had a nice dinner in Durango and discussed how we could envision living there someday, then we had to go to about four different hotels before anyone would let us reserve a room.  Despite that we were adults, could pay and had our marriage license as proof... we were “too young.”  Age limits like that are quite possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of.

I think it was at the hotel that finally gave us a room in Durango when I thought my arm would have to be amputated.  We were still getting used to the mechanics of sharing a bed and Shelly’s head cut off the circulation in my arm while I slept.  I don’t know how long it took for my arm to ‘wake up’ the next morning but I was legitimately scared.  We left the next morning for New Mexico.  It was on another night in another town that a sleepy, disoriented Shelly was nearly scared to death by the strange man in her bed.  As it turned out he was pretty handsome, so she calmed down.

We arrived in the Taos, New Mexico area after about a week on the road.  We’d arrived just in time for a motorcycle rally somewhere nearby.  I called just about every hotel in town before yet another full hotel suggested that I give the ski valley a try.  The Taos ski valley hotels start opening up in late May and we found a place with rooms available.  It was about a half hour outside town.

We had planned on continuing our journey, but the Inn at Snakedance ended up being an amazing find.  They gave us amazing free breakfast of the freshest fruit I could imagine, cost less than many hotels and were just the right brand of rustic and comfort for us.  After a week on the road, I think we were ready to settle in and relax.  We didn’t leave until it was time to go home.  When they heard we were on our honeymoon we got an upgraded room with a front viewing window.  We might have even extended our stay for a few days beyond what we’d planned for our honeymoon.

We had our first true argument before we left the Inn at Snakedance.  We’d decided to hike down the mountain but this proved a far more taxing endeavor than expected – and there was still the hike back up the mountain to account for.  Exhaustion caught us by surprise about a mile down the mountain.  Bickering began, but didn’t really get going until we found a soda machine in the parking lot of a closed up hotel.  I was tired and thirsty and the idea of a cold soda was a glorious prospect... until the machine turned out to be broken.  That was an unhappy moment and all I know is that an angry woman definitely climbs mountains faster than a man in mourning over a Dr. Pepper.

That night we reconciled at the restaurant just in front of the Inn.  I still dream about the Green Chili Soup I had there.  It has never been matched.  I like to think it was that night that I made Shelly laugh so hard she peed in the bed.  I did make her laugh until she peed, but I don’t remember where we were.

Leaving there felt as sad the end of a honeymoon should feel, though we still had to drive back home.  I’ve always wanted to return to the Inn at Snakedance, but we never have.  Maybe on another anniversary we will go there again.

Our honeymoon ended a long time ago but we’re still on that adventure.  It’s our tenth anniversary and we’ve got no plans but to follow the wind as it blows swirling down life street.  Life is a choose-your-own-adventure book and I’ve loved every minute of this one.  I hope not to reach the last page for many more years.

Sidekick Wife Does A Full Circle

Happy mother's day to mothers everywhere... but especially the sidekick wife.  Motherhood is an amazing service and incredible station.  Flowers don't really do it justice.

I've been converting some old videos of my sidekick wife and posting them on Facebook.  I've always enjoyed them... but approaching fatherhood has made me appreciate them even more, I think.

We can all imagine how our loved ones were before we knew them but it's sort of fascinating to truly see the woman I now know... as a child.  I can almost envision how she became who she is, how layers were added to that child to create the uniqueness that is Michelle.  It's like being told how a magic trick works, like witnessing the birth of creation.  I've seen the end result already... but witnessing the initial impetus and genesis is all the more intriguing and enjoyable.

Little Shelly has the same smile that I love, only it is full and free... unfettered.  For all that I cherish seeing her smile and laugh as a woman... to see the pure version of it on a child fills me with awe.  Joy radiates from her in a way that I've never seen before... not because she's no longer good enough but because the adult, modern version of my sidekick wife is too complex and full of exquisite subtlety to capture such a single, unbridled emotion.

I like that little girl in the videos.  She is sweet of heart, earnest and creative.  I would want her to be my son's friend... and, fortunately, she will be.  Michelle will be his best friend.  For years.  She'll be his first love, first kiss, the standard by which he judges all future women.  I like that.

Not everyone walks the road of being a parent and for awhile it was hard for us to find this path.  We're fast approaching our tenth anniversary.  When we were married I would have laughed at anyone who said we wouldn't even start trying to have children for almost a decade.  I imagined having multiple children by now... but life is a strange, mercurial thing.

Michelle and I are both thirty.  When I think about that I am simply astounded.  I still think of myself as a barely-adult, an almost-man.  Thirty sounds so... mature... on a different level than that which I feel in myself.  As a child I always thought adults had acquired enough knowledge to fill up every decision with reason and wisdom.  They always seemed so... confident.  One of the interesting things I've come to believe is that only fools are ever filled with the sort of absolute confidence and security in life choices that I used to associate with adulthood (a confidence and security different from trust in God).

I'm an adult and I'm winging it as much as I ever have.  Sure, I think ahead more.  I plan more.  I probably make wiser decisions than I used to.  That doesn't mean I'm not guessing at things.  It's a less than inspiring feeling when I think of being a father, honestly.

Fortunate for me, I know this simple fact:  Michelle will be an amazing mother.  All of the wonderful qualities of intent and joy and radiating spirit that I see in those videos of little Shelly will come full circle... and I'm the father who will get to share in and benefit from it.

This is the first mother's day that we have been blessed to have a living child... not birthed yet, but present  and constantly kicking and full of electric life.  I am excited for what the future holds and constantly thinking about the incredible mother that I will witness as much as the son that will be with her always.

Another Day Goes By. For Me.

I showered today, I carpooled with my wife to work, drank coffee, ate lunch, and realized that I forgot something for filing my taxes.  I felt love, I felt nervous for the future, I got frustrated, I was happy.  Another dreaded Monday is coming to the end as I sit on the couch, clicking away at the computer.

So much about life is mundane.  We are made up of these many mundane moments mixing together.  Life seems to pass quickly these days.  The sidekick wife and I have started our birthing classes and every time the weekend arrives it feel like it was just here.  The future of a lovely little baby boy abusing reusable diapers in Castle Black feels far away, but I suspect it may arrive swiftly like Lancelot in a Monty Python movie.

These days we want to nest but can't because we're fixing up the basement to expand our 830 sq ft grandma home.  The construction could start in as little as a few weeks or approximately as long as who the hell knows?  The bank just asked for even more documentation of income and such last week (even though we're already approved)... and we aren't allowed to start some of the pre-construction work until we get permission from them.  This uncertainty of timing is frustrating and inconvenient but it's all part of living... and not much of a complaint.

I, we, are excited for the future on a fundamental, base level.  We've been married for ten years and are finally getting around to having the children that we thought we'd have eight years ago... before we found too many reasons to continue not trying... before we were reminded of the lack of control we have over things.  I never thought I'd be 30 and childless, but after everything... this year feels like a gift, like a mercy, like a true joy.

I consider the qualities I want my child to possess... what hopes I have for his future life.  I smile at the knowledge of his loving, sweet mother's guidance.  This will be a home of peace, of love, of shelter.  This will be an attempt at demonstrating how to properly interact with the world.... how to get by without giving up that which is most important... how to worship God, not self, in every act... how to be the person we all wished we'd become when we were too young to know better... to know worse.

I fear this world.  I fear the effect it has on me... on my inner self.  I often wonder if living a good life in every single seemingly interminable act is somewhat harder than choosing to give up your life for God in a single act.  I feel confident that I could make the latter choice... and I daily fail at the former.

This world is full of joy.  It's overflowing with happiness.  There's more good in the world than could ever be consumed, experienced, and described... but there's also sadness.  It's like a dirty sheen that covers everything.  It's an oil spill in a crystal-clear ocean and we're suck trying to live in the midst of it, praying to stay clean.

Today I made it through another day.  Someone else didn't.  Another day went by.  For me.  For someone else the day ended early.  It wasn't cancer.  It wasn't a heart attack.  It wasn't a tornado or an earthquake.  It wasn't the rainbow variety of changes and chances this world offers.  It was none of those things, though they happen.

Today a once smiling child with a happy heart and love in their eyes woke up... older... twisted... deformed  by the world and self.  Today a father lost a child... not because of any good reason... just because.  Because someone else decided they should.

This is no rare act.  It's a daily reality in some places.  On the newscast when it happens to generic others... it's almost like background noise.  We've grown accustomed to that suffering, but not when it happens at home.  This one has emotion...feeling... and it isn't pleasant.

This bombing at the Boston Marathon is perspective.  It is a wake up call.  This type of death is tragic.  It is unacceptable.  It is many things and none good... and the lives lost shouldn't hurt and anger me more just because they mirrored my own.  God doesn't value an American more... but somewhere subconsciously I do.

I need to re-awaken to the reality of the equality of mankind.  I once left the US because I felt it was fine and well to wax intellectual about equality if I was always comfortable and surrounded by familiar things... but it was another thing to go somewhere different to live the reality of "different isn't worse."  Mankind is beautiful and full in diversity.  I'm realizing that this semblance of indifference to suffering around the world is the same superiority malaise from a different angle.

It's an interesting juxtaposition... my eagerness to bring another soul into this world... a world of too-oft sadness.  I think of parents who loved their children before birth, who dreamed of them before even the act of conception and who had the hopes of a full and vibrant life... like I do... and I can't imagine the burning grief and sorrow they feel today... a sorrow someone else wanted them to feel, just because.

This world civilization we have collectively grown is not sustainable.  It simply isn't.

I refuse to be satisfied just because another day went by.  For me.

Renew Year

Digit Four

pimple faced

emotionally unbalanced

millennium two

is a teenager

JB 12/31/2012

The new year rolls out before me, shrouded in mist and mystery.  Four digits, one changed.  Two-thousand and twelve is nearly spent, but the dying wroth of a bitter year still burns brightly in ash - enough to make me wonder whether a single new digit will change my fortune.

I’m surprised to find that I’m too bitter to look forward with pure hope and joy.  A new year dawns and for the first time I feel somewhat like the girl with diamond jewelry who freezes to death, never noting the irony of coal transformed and draped around her body in cold, hard glitterings.

I’m not happy with what the last year brought, but it’s hardly a satisfying experience to seethe.  I’m tired of having reasons to be angry, but I’m also tired of my own response.

It’s not the year that needs renewed, it’s me.  Now is probably as good a time as any.  I should probably work on this.

Christmas

Returning

south beckons

a home I no longer know

a place familiar yet changed

like the constant wind blowing in a sacred place

never ceasing yet not the same

JB 12/20/2012

Quiver Not, Oh Quiver Of Thought

I feel like my mind has different modes - creative, abstract, pensive, active.

It's more than just a mood, it's like tunnels that lead to different places and even though they may run parallel, between them is a barrier I pass not.  Last night I was able to pray and the focus and intent and connection I felt was like a clear river.  Tonight it's like I'm held back by a veil.  I feel like I'm searching for a connection and just saying words as my mind alternates between searching for God and wandering haphazardly.

On the other hand, I could write anything I wanted tonight and always find the words for it.  I could explain anything aptly... coherently... succinctly.

It somehow goes beyond even a frame of mind.  It is more a method of thought.  It is a daily new brain.

Some day mankind will be ready to discover what makes the mind flow along certain pathways... what calibrates it to function smoothly for specific tasks.  Or maybe the truth has been discovered and I've not yet found it.

Somewhere an Indian guru speaks of meditation methods.  Another of proper nutrition.  Another of intent and relationship with events.

Somewhere a man flexes but butt and tilts his head just a bit - voila! - the brain stopper's chain is first stretched taught and then pulls the stopper out as the thoughts begin to flow.

Learnings within learnings and mysteries yet unsolved - awareness lies over the next hill.

A Dream, Awakened

a jumble of thoughts

life is a mixed up puzzle

a dream awakened

-JB 11/14/2012

I feel like my mind is flexible today, as if I never really woke up.  Interpret this dream for me.

I had a dream where my wife and I bought our first house in a town that visually was unfamiliar to me now that I think back on it.  We were neighbors to a very large red house with white trim.  This was notable at the time.  My wife bought the house before I had seen it and there was excitement as she drove me home for the first time.  There was some sort of group meeting at our home, almost like we were a band out in the wilderness making camp, and I had to make sure that I woke up on time for work... but it was more than just going to work, it was something more significant and meaningful to the group.  I went upstairs as I explored the house.  I noticed that the previous owner had left the house furnished with dressers and beds and the closets were filled with clothes.  One room on the left had an old computer that played retro games, which excited me to play again.  That room had other old electronics that excited me to see again. There were more rooms in the house than it initially seemed, and at the end of the hall was second staircase down to the first floor kitchen that I had missed when I first came in the house.  Another staircase was next to that.  It was narrow and twisted a bit, but I could see that it went from the second floor all the way to the basement which I had not yet been to.  From the top of that staircase I could see that a light was on in the basement and the floor was red like the floor in our real home.  My wife was sometimes my brother and sometimes my wife again and all of the things left in the house, once belonging to someone I realized was now dead, were new to me and I was excited to find out what was valuable, but also just excited to have new things.