Bright stars glint and twinkle. In the distance, planes roar, coming and going from Detroit Metro. We are on the front porch. Seven years and 257 miles from where it began. Our words make white vapor in the cold evening air.
“South Dakota?” I ask. “What’s there?”
“A new art studio,” Maggie says.
“You have a studio. With a two-bedroom apartment. On the island.”
“You can have it,” she says. “After it’s empty, of course.”
“So, you’re going to load up decades of artwork, my kid, and move to South Dakota?”
“Sioux Falls,” she says.
ZuZu wraps herself around my leg. Our eyes meet. She’s tired. I’m tired.
“Daddy, I don’t want South Dakota,” she says.
“Nobody wants South Dakota, Zu.”
Maggie leans against the house. Sighs. A brown curl falls and dangles between her eyes. Like magic, she manifests an orange scrunchie from nowhere, reaches up with both hands, and pulls the fallen curl and everything else back. When she does this her jean jacket opens to reveal Frank Sinatra’s mug shot from 1938. My T-shirt. One she bought for me. Six Christmases ago.
“I want to go to South Dakota,” she snarks. “To Sioux Falls. With our kid. You, as usual, will be doing your thing, on the island for God-knows-how-long. Maybe through winter? ZuZu and I don’t need to be stuck there like Danny and Wendy in The Shining.”
“Nice literary reference.”
“Thank you,” Maggie says. “I thought you’d like it.”
“Why don’t you set up in Thunder Bay, then? At the cottage.”
Maggie rolls her eyes. Crosses her arms.
“I don’t think so.”
“You’ll have your own space. I’ll be out of your hair. And then, it’s not that long of a drive,” I say nodding toward ZuZu. “For visits and such.”
“Ninety-minutes,” Maggie says. “Then forty-five minutes of ferry time.”
“I love the ferry!” ZuZu exclaims. “The island too! I like when the horses take us up the hill in the buggy!”
Maggie moves closer then kneels to get level with ZuZu. I breathe. Slowly. Deeply. And there it is—citrus—grapefruit and bergamot. The same sweet scent from hugs we used to share—good morning, good afternoon, goodnight.
“I know, honey. I like the island too. But Daddy and I have a lot to discuss.”
“Oh, no…” ZuZu says, as she scoots across the porch away from us, “…more discussing.”
My phone CHA-CHINGS! like an old cash register.
ZuZu leaps to her feet, “Greta! Greta! Greta!” she cheers.
Maggie and I jokingly chose this notification sound the day I signed with Apple Tree Agency. A small boutique outfit owned and operated by Greta Gellhorn. A twenty-something with a Ph.D. in English, a nose for business, and a story so serendipitous, Maggie insisted I give her a shot.
I’m at The New Hudson Inn, the text reads. Thinking about my favorite writer. Meet me for drinks?
We’re all a long way from that cold December day when the recent graduate, with nothing to do but drink and read, found a beat-up copy of my self-published book, A Better Place, at the Bicentennial Bookshop in Kalamazoo. She paid seventy-five cents for it, went straight home, and splashed Vernors into Sobieski for three and a half hours until she was done. That was it, she said. She knew she wanted to help people like me—unknown writers—to get known, get read, and get paid.
“Well, what did she say?” Maggie asks.
“Book signings. Updated numbers. I hate that shit.”
ZuZu stomps her foot. Scowls. “Don’t swear, Daddy!”
“And don’t hate it,” Maggie says. “It wasn’t that long ago you were writing from a basement in the projects, and we were struggling to make ends meet.”
“I’d like to be back there now,” I say.
Maggie bites her lip. Nearly loses it to tears and crying and everything else that’s balled up and ready to spring out from inside. It’s awful seeing her like this on the porch where we used to sit and drink wine and watch ZuZu chase moths and grasshoppers. Where we talked and listened as the big sun slipped down behind the maples night after night to meet the horizon. She has something to say. It’s on the tip of her tongue. But she will not let it out to be free and run, and I don’t know how to help. Communication, intimacy, everything I thought we would always share has been lost in roles and expectations, and it is our inability to share and explain and get it all out—to get it back—that heightens my pulse, sends my heart into my guts, and makes me wish she didn’t look so pretty—even now, with darkness all around and sadness in her face—and that we weren’t falling apart like this, right now, in the middle of our life.
Maggie wipes her eyes and there is a great sparkle as her diamond catches the light.
“You’re still wearing it,” I say.
“We’re still married.”
She is on shaky ground now. About to break loose at any moment.
“Give Momma a hug,” I say to ZuZu.
Maggie lifts her and they hug.
“I don’t want South Dakota, Mommy.”
“I know, honey,” she says. “I know.”
And then they bring the tears, lots of them, but I don’t want any, so I focus on the flashing lights of planes pushing through the dark sky and I think of the men and women, husbands and wives—some of them great distances from home, great distances from themselves and each other—traveling together or alone. People with more disaster, fear, and failure stitching together their relationships—their lives—than any outsider could ever know. And I wonder, if people trust strangers to land them safely from flights so high above the earth, why can’t Maggie and I even get off the ground?
“I don’t want South Dakota,” ZuZu says again.
I head this off before it goes too far.
“Let’s not worry about South Dakota. Let’s worry about Frankenmuth.”
“I thought you were going to the Detroit Zoo?” Maggie asks.
ZuZu jumps from Maggie’s arms. Stands between us. Wipes her eyes with her arm.
“What’s Frankenmuth?” she asks.
“Frankenmuth is a town. About ninety minutes north.”
“But I want to see the polar bears,” she says.
“We’ll see bears.”
“We will?”
“Sure, black bears, and there’ll be a tiger and lion, and—”
“But I want to go into the glass cave. The tunnel with the water around us and watch the bears swim.”
“The Artic Ring of Life,” Maggie interjects, “Mommy remembers.”
“Yes!” ZuZu shouts. We can watch the blind sea lions swim and play with the big red ball.”
“That was always fun,” Maggie says.
“We’re not going to the big zoo,” I say. “We’re going to a little zoo where we can feed goats and turtles and parakeets.”
“Turtles!” She cheers and looks up at Maggie. “Turtles, Mommy!”
“They have lots of shops too. Ice cream shops, candy shops, sausage shops, cheese shops, smoothie shops. We can eat and drink whatever we want.”
Maggie glares at me, “Not too much drinking,” she says.
“Okay! Okay!” ZuZu cheers. “Let’s go!”
I pick her up, we hug, and Maggie steps closer. She touches my arm and for a moment, we are home again. Husband and wife and daughter. On our porch. Decompressing from the day. All we need is a little wine, the birds, and the light of the sun, even if only a few minutes before it disappears with no promise of a return.
“Where are you staying tonight?” I ask.
She takes her keys from her pocket. Backs away.
“Canton.”
“What’s in Canton?” I ask.
She pecks ZuZu’s cheek.
“Friends,” she says, and turns away.
My guts roil.
“Bye, Momma!”
“Bye, honey!” Maggie sings back. “I love you! See you in Thunder Bay in four days.”
ZuZu hugs me tight. Maggie walks away. Down the porch steps where we used to sit and feed breadcrumbs to the family of mallards that adopted us for three summers. Into the driveway where we played basketball and hopscotch. And into the 4Runner that took us everywhere. Grocery shopping at Meijer. To Wasabi in Westland. To Hines Park. Red Robin. The Drive-In on Ford Avenue. Tigers’ games. Bald Mountain in Lake Orion. And no matter the season, always up north, back home to Thunder Bay. The place we swore we’d return to and live one day.
“I still don’t want South Dakota,” ZuZu says.
“South Dakota’s not so bad. Mount Rushmore’s there.”
“Dead presidents in rock?”
“A great American landmark.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You’re a landmark,” she says.
“Presidential material.”
“Mom’s President,” ZuZu says.
I follow Maggie’s taillights until they are gone. Eaten up by the dark.
“Time for beer and Scooby-Doo,” I say.
“Okay,” ZuZu says. “But not too much. We need our rest.”
“You can never have too much beer and Scooby-Doo,” I say, and carry her inside.
This is an excerpt from the upcoming novel, Devotion, by KJ Stevens.
Spring the past couple days. Snow melting. Birds clustered in the tops of bony-fingered maples. Chattering. They know this won’t last, but it’s nice to think about it. Consider it. Hope that winter is done with us. Indeed, that hint of flowers and green grass gives us the bump we need to make it through another day.
But if we’re relying on the weather for perspective, to shake us out of our winter blues, perhaps we’ve been complacent too long. Running the same routine. Doing the same things. Expecting different results. Could it be these past few days of sunshine and 40 degrees aren’t here for a little relief, but are a sign to do more? To do different?
We have routines and the day-to-day because that’s what’s necessary to fulfill our roles, meet the expectations of others, and to make ends meet. But is your routine making you happy? Is there enough change and difference in your day to encourage growth? And do you need encouragement?
What happened to the hunger?
Not the grumble in your tummy that’s got you running through the drive-thru, but that ache inside telling you that you’re meant for more. What did you do to it? It’s still there, isn’t it? In restless sleep. Dreams. Song lyrics. Maybe today, in the ray of sunlight that filters through the window, as you watch starlings fly in a great, magical wave, to cluster at the top of the maple.
My wife is on the telephone. Talking with her lover. So, I stand outside. Fingers aching cold. Eyes watering at the sky. It’s too late in the year, but there’s a V of geese flying above me. Struggling to keep formation. So low, I can hear the whistling of wings. They are headed south. Or maybe not even that far. Perhaps the city, only thirty miles away, will be warm enough. Year-round parks. Bird feeders and hand-outs. Ponds that don’t freeze. The birds honk as they ascend into thick, gray clouds that layer and fold. Create shapes and forms. A heart. A horse. A ring. The face of Jesus in the sky.
Finally, filled up on cold, I go inside.
I stomp the snow off my boots. Plates and cups rattle on shelves behind cupboard doors.
“Why are you stomping? You know I’m on the phone!”
She says this with her hand clamped over the mouthpiece. To stifle our sound. As if any of this can be kept silent.
I stomp more, then move to the coffee pot. Her cup is there. Lipstick on the rim. I touch it then look at the color on my fingertips. It is not quite red, and it is something new.
I pour coffee. Add milk and sugar. I stir. Clank the spoon all around inside the cup.
She’s twirling her hair with fury. Glaring at me, as she listens to her lover. They are making plans. I know this because she has told me so. In all of this she has told me plenty. She has been honest. She’s told me the Truth.
Finally, she says, she’s fallen in love. Our marriage was something else. Not love, but something to help us find Love. She has found hers. I will find mine. Our divorce is necessary, she says. It is a parting of ways that will free us. And we need to be free because we are no longer the people we used to be.
“I can’t wait to see you,” my wife tells the other man. “I’m taking care of things on this end, and I’ll be leaving shortly.”
I have not seen my wife in weeks. She has come now to deliver paperwork. To resolve our broken life with a folder of documents. A list.
“I don’t want this to be messy,” she says to me, as she returns the receiver to its cradle.
“It’s already messy,” I say.
She takes a sheet of paper from the folder she’s brought.
“Here’s a list,” she says, holding it out for me. “Things I want to keep. Things you can have. I trust we know enough of each other that we don’t need the lawyers to decide on these things.”
The list is written on personalized stationery. Kali Beck, it says. Already, she’s dropped my last name.
“I’ll look it over later,” I say, and squeeze my coffee cup.
She sighs. Fills her cup over the sink. Like she’s always done. As usual, she only pours half a cup, and she spills a little.
I stare out the window into the field across the road. There are turkeys marching through dead grass. I count twenty-seven hens. There isn’t a tom in sight. The turkeys gather near a row of abandoned hay bales. They peck and scratch the ground.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks, sipping her coffee.
I raise my cup to my lips as slowly as I can. Take a long, noisy sip.
“I know when it happened,” I say.
“What?”
“When it ended.”
She sets her cup down. Leans against the counter top. Stares into the floor.
“Listen,” she says, “I don’t want to fight. I just came to give you the papers and say goodbye.”
I feel something shaking loose inside. I hold my cup tighter. Move closer to her.
“Listen,” I begin. “One night, I came home early, and you were in the shower. The phone rang. I answered it, and I could feel him on the line.”
She turns and reaches for her coat. I continue.
“He didn’t say anything, but I knew he was there. It was like both of us were standing silent, face to face in the dark. And I wanted him to say something, to ask for you, but he didn’t. And I walked to the bathroom door with the phone in my hand, and I wanted to confront you. Both of you. But he’d hung up before I could say anything. So, I stood there, outside the bathroom, waiting for you, not knowing what to do, trying in my mind to put together the pieces. And then, that’s when I heard it.”
Kali slips her arms through her sleeves. Pulls on her hat.
“Heard what?” she asks.
“The shower spraying. Water drops against the shower curtain. And you, my wife. Singing a song I’d never heard before. That’s when I knew.”
She looks into my eyes and I feel it, as I have always felt it, but I see that she feels nothing. Her brown eyes are glass. Small, dark surfaces for reflecting the world.
“Stop it,” she says, quietly.
“After I heard you singing, I walked outside and stood in the dark looking at our house. And I thought about all of things we had shared. And all of the things we had planned. I stared for a long time at the bathroom window. Through the shades and the steam, I could see a shadow. An outline of a woman. But it wasn’t you.”
“It was me,” Kali says, “It was me, but…”
She moves away. Toward the wood carving of Jesus that hangs on the kitchen wall. He’s leaning forward under the weight of the cross he carries. She reaches up and touches him.
“I forgot about this,” she says. “I didn’t put it on the list.”
“You made it.”
“I did. But you can keep it.”
Kali turns. Faces me. Our eyes lock. I feel it again, as I’ve felt it thousands of times, but she shows nothing.
I turn away. Look out the kitchen window as big flakes drift and whirl. The turkeys are gone. The sky is white. And behind me, Kali opens the door. There is a moment of shared silence. Like two strangers passing in the dark. And then, she is gone.
Was in bed until 7:47 am. I’d like to say it’s because I was conked out peacefully all night. But that would be inaccurate. Fantasy. The real bit is that I stayed up longer than usual watching the Lions lose, I’m getting older, and the past several weeks have been bumpier than I let on. I am tired. If it wasn’t for the invisible winter sunrise and my brain urging me to get up and at the monotonous morning routine, I would have stayed in bed. For how long, I’m not sure.
But this little life relies on me. I have things to do, and I’m willing and able.
One day, that’ll not be the case. And that reminder, the “one day,” changes my approach to how I engage with my mind, feelings, and actions. Being aware that I’ll encounter a time when there are no days, or that my existence and how I experience it may be greatly altered, tempers expectations and readies me for opportunities that are always present in whatever comes. This ensures an ever-flowing undertone of hope.
And we all need that, don’t we?
Taking down the old calendar and putting up the new. A whole fresh set of empty boxes, untouched. Ready for our making.
What will you choose to do?
Transfer over important dates from last year? Plan a little getaway? Pencil in more me time?
Maybe announce to the world your commitment to a new you, all diet and exercise, sharing jogging logs and smoothie recipes?
Or better yet, proclamations and filtered photos of a sudden acceptance of yourself and awareness of how happy you are just being you?
Or maybe not.
Maybe you’ll sober up. Go deeper. Get into the guts of it. And force yourself into awkward situations that cause discomfort and uncertainty, requiring you to listen closely, rise taller, and fight more fairly, so that at the end—whatever and whenever that is—you will have grown.
I visit him because he’s a crazy fucker and he needs me. If I don’t go there, he’ll louse up big time. And that will be that. He’ll make toast in the bathtub. Jump off the roof. Hang himself with Christmas lights. Which would be fitting, since it is Christmas and all.
He’s not answering his phone. It rings and rings and rings. This isn’t a surprise. He doesn’t always answer it. Not right away. He lets it ring, watches it ring, and if the ring sounds different than he thinks it should, he answers it. It’s hit or miss with this guy. More often than not, I’m a hit, but today it’s Christmas Day, the only day when I actually plan on seeing the damned loony, and I’m a miss.
Or he is.
I’m not sure.
What I am sure of is that I have twelve miles to drive through a snowstorm to spread some holiday cheer, and he’s got me worried.
He says awful things sometimes. Like earlier today, when the crazy ass actually answered the phone and I had to hang up on him. I couldn’t help it. I had to. He said that all he wanted for Christmas was a gun. He sang that damned song, the one that goes “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth,” but he changed the words to “All I want for Christmas is a real big gun, a real big gun.” He kept singing it and singing it, over and over, so I hung up the phone. I had to. It was pretty scary. Really.
And now I’m calling him back, and he won’t answer the phone. Not even on Christmas. So, I load up what I got for him. Six-foot-tall, fake tree. Two dozen Christmas bulbs. Twenty-five feet of silver garland. He’s already got lights. The day after Thanksgiving he somehow managed to get to a store and buy lights. Or maybe he stole them. I don’t know.
Of course, I got him what he wanted. A gun. It’s a toy, but Catchey won’t know the difference. He’s wrecked. Not all there, if you know what I mean.
It’s a lever-action, black steel, Daisy Red Ryder BB gun. Without the BBs. I kept those. The last thing I want him doing is loading the sonofabitch and putting an eye out. Especially mine.
I don’t wrap the gun because I know if I do, he’ll have a fit. He’s got an issue with Christmas wrap. Years ago, his baby brother, Jeffery, choked on a wad of it and died. He was only four. Catchey was eight. When his parents came into the living room, they couldn’t tell if Catchey was shoving the wad of paper in or trying to get it out. That morning, before the Christmas wrap incident, Catchey had threatened to kill his little brother because he had received more toys than he did. So, you see, even as a kid, Catchey had issues. A mean streak. Extreme highs and extreme lows. But when a kid’s eight years old, and his baby brother dies, you give him the benefit of the doubt.
Unfortunately, since that gift of doubt, it’s all been downhill.
His parents are dead too.
His dad died in a fire. Fell asleep in his hunting blind because of the fumes from his heater. Was cooked up when his pant leg got too close to the flame. Catchey was sixteen.
Two years later, his mom whacked herself out. Took a bottle of Tylenol PM and washed it down with a bottle of Absolut. Catchey found her but didn’t report it. Didn’t call for help. Didn’t do anything. He ordered Chinese food and stayed in his room for days. Watched the Yankees in the World Series. Finally, Yang, from Bin Bin’s House of Dong, noticed the stink of the body as he delivered half a dozen crab cheese wontons and a pepper-steak entrée. When Yang returned to the House of Dong, he called the cops.
When they arrived, they knew something was afoot. Catchey had draped a large Yankees pennant over his mother’s body. He had his pants down, was sitting in his own shit, crying on the floor next to her. They were surrounded by empty Chinese food cartons.
I pass Bin Bin’s House of Dong as I drive through the snow. I get stuck at a stoplight, but some tis-the-season-to-be-jolly Samaritan stops and pushes me out. I keep right on going once he’s pushed me out, and I feel sort of bad for not saying thank you, or for giving a friendly wave, but I got my hands on the wheel at ten and two, and I know God will be proud of me for running to see if Catchey’s okay. Especially on baby Jesus’ birthday.
The push out of the snow was all I needed. An angel. A do-gooder. Somebody looking to make a few bucks. Whatever the case, I get through the snow all right and before I know it, I’m standing at Catchey’s door with my arms full of Christmas.
“Merry Christmas, Catchey!”
He doesn’t come to the door.
“Open up, Catchey! It’s Santee Claus and he’s got presents!”
Still no answer.
I stand waiting for as long as I can. I think about turning back. I could decorate my own place. Whip up the tree, wrap it in garland, drink a few beers, put up some lights and then sit in my living room shooting them out with the BB gun. But no, I think. Poor Catchey. That dumb sonofabitch could have his head in the oven or be lighting himself on fire. Like he’s done before.
That was another scary one.
“I’m going to light me on fire!” he’d screamed through the phone one morning.
“No, Catchey. Don’t do it. You’ll get in trouble. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’m going to! Come watch! On the corner!”
When I got to the corner outside Catchey’s place, he was there all right. Holding a framed 8×10 of himself and his parents. Dousing it with lighter fluid.
“Time to go!” he screamed.
“Catchey, don’t burn that picture. It’s the only one you got.”
He burned it anyway, or at least tried to. When he sparked that match, the picture went up in flames. Catchey screamed, dropped it, then threw himself to the ground and rolled his body back and forth over the picture until the flames were out and the frame and glass were busted to bits.
“I save! I save!” he yelled.
And I guess, in his own way, he did.
The picture, torn and smoked by flame, is tacked to his kitchen wall.
I know I have to go into the apartment. I just have to because I’ll feel guilty if I don’t.
As usual, the door’s unlocked.
Inside, Catchey’s under the kitchen table with a silver colander on his head. He’s flat on the floor with pillows stacked in front of him, aiming a wooden spoon at me as I bend over to look at him.
“Catchey, what are you doing?”
“You’re dead! You talk no more! Shut up! You’re dead!”
“Catchey, listen. I’m sorry I hung up on you. I’m here to celebrate. It’s Christmas!”
By now, Rucks, Catchey’s Maine Coon, has appeared from the bathroom. He’s rubbing his ass on my leg.
“Rucks get you! Rucks get you!” Catchey yells, as he clangs the spoon against the colander on his head. “Rucks kill bad!”
I make like I’m going to swat the cat and it runs into the bathroom. I set the Christmas goodies on the kitchen table.
Catchey reaches up and grabs my leg.
“You Santee?”
I smack Catchey in the noggin. The colander rings like a Christmas bell.
“Get out from under there!”
Catchey lets go of my leg. He scrambles out from under the table and stands next to me. He puts his head on my shoulder, whimpers as tears swell up in his eyes.
I walk away from him and take the tree into the living room. He’s got his recliner turned facing the window. Covered in Christmas lights. The television is face down on the floor. There’s dried cat puke everywhere.
Catchey sobs in the kitchen. It bothers me because all he wants for Christmas is a gun, and the gun is sitting right there on the kitchen table. All he’s got to do is stop crying and open his eyes.
I try not to think about it as I get the tree out of the box. It’s in three pieces. The branches all folded up, but it’s a breeze to put together, and I’m surprised at how real it looks, even up close. I sniff the needles for the hell of it, and I swear I can smell pine. I pick up the box and read it. It says nothing about being a scented tree.
“Catchey, stop crying. Come smell this tree.”
He doesn’t come, but Rucks does. Comes purring alongside me. Rubbing my leg. He stops suddenly then wretches and wretches until he hacks up a milky gob of hair.
I walk away, into the kitchen, because I need the bulbs and garland to decorate the tree. When I get to the table, I notice that the gun’s gone. It’s gone and so is Catchey. I listen and can hear him in the bathroom. He cocks and fires, cocks and fires. Squeals with joy.
It almost makes me smile.
I put the garland and the bulbs on the tree and I’m wrapping the final loop of lights around it when Catchey comes into the room holding the gun.
“A gun!” he shouts, delighted like a child.
The moment might be perfect, a real instance of Christmas spirit, but Catchey’s naked from the waist down.
He does this all the time.
“Where are your pants?”
“I shit!” he yells, still absolutely tickled that he’s holding a gun.
What can I do?
I walk over and plug in the lights. The phony tree looks great.
“Catchey, come smell the tree.”
“A gun! A gun! A gun!”
He cocks the gun, points the barrel into my face, and pulls the trigger. A blast of air whops me in the eye.
“I kill!” he shouts, ecstatically, “I kill!”
Rucks is behind Catchey with his front paws on the back of Catchey’s thigh, nosing his ass.
I turn the recliner around and take a seat. Catchey moves toward the tree. He bends over and puts the gun under it. Rucks is behind him, sniffing away.
I stare into the lights.
“I leave the gun for Santee,” Catchey whispers. Then he stands up and walks toward me. Stands right in front of me. His cock and balls dangling in my face.
“Catchey, turn around.”
He does, and there’s shit and bits of toilet paper smeared around his crack.
I stand up and put my hands on Catchey’s shoulders. Poor Catchey. I just want to hug him, to hold the crazy bastard and let him know that things will be okay, but I can’t because they probably won’t be. He’s too far gone, and all I can do is pretend that things have not come to this.
“I give Santee gun,” he whispers.
Rucks is back. Sniffing and rubbing. This time I give him an ever-so-gentle holiday boot so he slides across the hardwood floor and lands under the tree. He casually rights himself, lifts his leg, and licks and licks away. When he’s satisfied, he stretches out onto his side and paws at something I cannot see. His tail whisks back and forth like a pendulum.
“Catchey, Santee doesn’t come to little boys who can’t wipe their own asses.”
I know I shouldn’t say things like that, but it’s ridiculous. Nonsense. He’s a grown man.
Some days he can get out and walk to the store himself. Some days he can cook for himself. I’ve seen him come out of the bathroom clean and shaven, fresh and new. Why can’t he make it through today, of all days, without shitting himself?
I make him stand in the tub and I get the water started.
He breathes deeply. Wrings his hands.
“Sit,” I say.
He does, and then he rocks back and forth as I fill the tub. I use as much cold water as I can because I’m afraid of what might happen. And then, it does happen. I try not to look, but I do, I always do, and there it is. Catchey’s throbbing dick, getting bigger and bigger and bigger. He reaches for it, and I do what any civilized being would do. I pop him in the back of the head. Immediately, the excitement level drops.
I shove a bar of soap into his hands and order him to scrub. He bawls and wails, but sometimes you gotta be tough. With kids. With cats. With people you love.
I push him over, grab the shower head, and spray his ass as clean as I can.
“Stand up and dry off,” I say, as sternly as possible. “When I come back, I want you spic and span!”
As I walk out, I pick up his pants. There’s shit all over them, so I put them in the tree box and head outside into the snow, so that I can throw everything away into the dumpster.
How does it happen?
How does any of this happen?
A couple of bad shakes. A stacked deck. A bad deal. Turds in the gene pool.
There are layers of meaning to sift through, but I don’t have the time. I don’t want the time. I’m afraid of what I might find.
All around me snow, lights, and holiday cheer. Families getting together. Bundled up and driving by. They’ll suck down eggnog. Share presents. Make memories. Carve the Christmas beast. All of them living better than Catchey and me.
I throw the shitty Christmas tree box into the dumpster. I look up into the sky toward Catchey’s apartment window, expecting to see a burst of flames. A dangling rope. Or Catchey on the edge, getting ready to jump. But from the sidewalk, through huge, whirling snowflakes, all I can see is one thing. Catchey dripping wet and butt-naked, yanking lights off the tree.
You have a good stretch. You have a bad stretch. That’s the experience. It will not be flat, straight, without hiccups, accidents, or fear. However, you must remember that it is happening. That you have the opportunity to have the good and the bad and navigate the ups and downs.
Some don’t have that.
You do.
You are awake and conscious—at least on some level—and you’re here going through all of this with me. With us. We’re in it together. It may not have been our choice—the unexpected arrival here into a place both beautiful and cruel—but since we’re here let’s make the best of it. We don’t have the answers, and it’s debatable if answers are ever to be found. There are plenty of questions though. Lots to learn. So, let’s just get up, get at it, and enjoy all of this for what it is—a shared existence.
Wet and warm for December. Hard to believe St. Nick visits in eight days. That the Reindeer will land on the roof, rest, and bask in the glow of the multi-colored lights we strung so they can find the place. After all, there are a lot of houses on our street, and we are only an itty-bitty speck in a big old world. It’s important to stand out. Decorations are essential, but each home has a fingerprint that goes much deeper, and its identity is determined by all the action and energy that happens inside.
I believe we’ve been good enough this year. That Santa will stuff our stockings, give a few gifts, eat our sugar cookies, drink our 2% milk, and share the bag of baby carrots we leave for his hard-working, magical beasts. But who knows? When it comes right down to it, there are houses with brighter lights, decadent treats, and more meaningful fingerprints because they’ve put together much longer streaks of good-decision-making days.
So it goes, I guess. We can’t win ‘em all. We can only improve. And one thing I can say about our home is that even though our team is comprised of misfits, we are united and usually headed in the right direction. Looking out for others. Giving people the benefit of doubt. Believing in their good intent. Even if that means learning hard lessons in silence.
The holidays are no different than other days. At least, they shouldn’t be. Peace on Earth. Goodwill toward humans. Tossing glove-box change into red buckets. All of this should be everyday practice. Or maybe every other day. Once a week. A month. Whatever a person can muster when they aren’t locked away in their own little world. Fretting and frittering away at all the bullshit we create to muck up our lives when all we really have to do is take care of one another—and eat and drink and be merry.
Of course, there’s much more to it. Taking care involves thinking and patience, compromise, and sacrifice, and it is not meant for the faint of heart. You’ve either got the guts and love to land and live on the Island of Misfit Toys or you don’t. For those willing to do the work, to make better choices and follow through, you’ll start to see things, once again, like a little kid. Tucked in bed. Brimming with hope. Listening, even in the darkest, coldest night, for that sweet sound of rooftop sleigh bells.
Hard-waking. Slow to rise. Stumble down the stairs. Shower to life. Dry. Deodorize. Dress the part. Head out to the truck. And there it is. Fresh air. Clean snow. A brilliant, rising sky. And I want to stand and breathe and believe all of those things that I used to believe. How simple life is. That love is all around. That there are beautiful, thinking people out there rising to the day, carrying dreams, wanting something else, a bit more, but I stop myself. Once I start, I will not want it to end.
Reality is momentary. We must equip ourselves with the tools of the day. A pleasant attitude. A phony smile. False confidence. So that we can find the key. Turn the ignition. Motor into the day. Live the life of a person we weren’t meant to be.
We weren’t meant for this.
These routine days. This forced permanence in a world of flux. But we settle anyway. For family, we say. For security, we believe. And we convince ourselves of this so that we can feel that we’ve accomplished something. That we’ve done right. That we have provided, helped and loved, so that someone else can carry on. Maybe grow up, make the break, be the person we wanted so much to be.
It’s too late for us to change. There’ll be no breaking through. No rising high. We will live the middle class life of living, buying and dying, and we will pass as surely as any others. We are the bridge between the Haves and the Have Nots. The part that’s skipped when a person goes from rags to riches. Riches to rags. We are filler in the pothole. Caulk around the winter window. The hands that bear the caskets.
We are not meant for greater things. And greater things are not meant for us. Slowly, blindly, we lose touch with those things that burn deep. The childhood beliefs, the enthusiasm, the heart-pounding urgency. All of it is sighed away to sleep.
Until we wake the next day.
Here is another chance, we think. Maybe this is the day.
The alarm sounds. We struggle to pull ourselves from the warmth. Shower. Dry. Deodorize. Dress the part, and walk into another cold winter day.
Aging thoughtfully makes life better. I like the way the present and memories, the mornings and nights meet and mend. It’s worth investigating. Piecing together. Taking apart. Piecing together again. Like a puzzle that no matter how it’s assembled, makes sense.
Mornings
Dark early mornings standing on the porch. Stars leftover. A sliver moon. Dogs stretching, sniffing the ground, searching for the best place to poop and pee. I scan the sky. Will lights to move. To bring calm. A sense of peace. A wash of big perspective. Like I experienced when I was a kid. Late teens, about to leave the nest and achieve greatness. Absolute certainly I was writing stories that would change the world. No money. No common sense. Only a brain of know-it-all-ness. At 50 now, looking back, I understand I needed that holy white disc and the way it bent space, warped speed, and slowed time. It probably should have beamed me up for a good probing and proper scare, but it didn’t. Instead, it left me feeling small but connected—that I wasn’t alone.
Nights
At night, before bed. Dogs into kennels. Wife and kids gone upstairs. I clean the kitchen, pour a mug of milk. Drink it while eating cookies. Though we live across from a funeral home, our big, old house is quiet. Not a ghost in sight. This is disappointing. With the living and dying that’s taken place here over the past 120 years, there should be mysterious footsteps. Shadows darting by doorways. A lost voice struggling through dimensions to be heard. But it is only me. Standing in the pantry. Not hungry but munching my way to comfort. Crumbs falling down the front of my shirt. Regressing. Filling emptiness with sweets. Or maybe I just enjoy a few cookies before bed. Time will tell, I guess.
You may not be able to physically remove yourself from a stressful situation, but you can do so mentally. The deep breath trick works. Each breath can back you away from the situation. I like to think of each long inhale as a step back and each long exhale as another step back. Then, when I’m far enough away, I consider the situation, why I’m feeling stress, and how I can navigate the opportunity. Because that’s what the moment is—whatever the moment is. A disagreement. An important test. A car accident. Funeral. A party you don’t want to be at. Opportunity everywhere.
People think that opportunities are always good. Pleasant experiences when a big golden door suddenly opens in the middle of a flowery field. One you just happen upon as you move through your life. This is not true. Also, it’s important to remember that even when people fall ass-backwards into goodness, there’s a chance they’ve made some decisions previously that have led them to an opportunity which has benefited them. Opportunity can be ugly and it’s often worked for.
What I’ve discovered, albeit a bit late in life, is that there is truth to manifesting your destiny. It’s not all sitting and wishing, hoping, and dreaming. You must have some of that, but manifesting your destiny is about creating opportunities, carving out your success and happiness, whatever that may be. And one of the best ways to manifest your good is to step back from stressful situations, analyze them as best you can, and seek the opportunity within that moment. Believe it or not, there’s much more to be had from taking the high road, making good choices, rather than engaging in negativity.
Grace under pressure. Give yourself grace. Patience. Those deep breaths and seconds to collect yourself. When you do, you’re also giving others that same chance. I’m not saying one should always back down from a fight. That is not the case. What I’m saying is make sure you are focusing your energy on the right fights. Those that truly matter. Learn from stressful situations. See them for what they are. And if you remove yourself enough—even if it’s only a few breaths and a couple steps—you’ll likely see that what you’re smack dab in the middle of is a chance to make a decision that will help you level up and grow.
So, here’s to some deep breaths, folks. You got this.
Zoom out for perspective. Take that second or two to envision yourself observing the situation you’re in that’s causing frustration, the grief, the worry. Rise, like a ghost—or if you can’t wrap your head around what that might be like, imagine a drone. It’s rising, up and up over the situation. Perhaps, it’s an argument. Maybe it’s a competition. A job interview. Whatever it is, you are feeling stress. But as you move up into the sky, you notice things. At first it is the situation at hand. An office setting. A soccer field. Your very own backyard. And there’s the other person riling you up. What a prick. Not seeing your point. Not listening. Prodding. Or could you be the aggressor? In any case, as you continue your pullback, a straight shot up, you recognize the buildings, wide expanses of green, trees, water, and all the other activity we humans are engaged in. You pause in wonder at all that activity. People going to and from wherever it is they think they must go. Some engaged in happy endeavors, some not. They are stuck in similar situations, feeling the stress of a moment. All of us, together. As you continue your ascent, you breathe easier. You can’t even see yourself anymore. That argument, that disagreement that got your blood boiling, when looked at from above, is pretty inconsequential. By now, you see from horizon to horizon and you feel, once again, the magic of this place. You begin your descent armed with the knowledge that it’s not so bad after all.
Late start, but I needed the rest. Not that it was solid, but when moments of sleep came, I took advantage. Slipping away deep enough for my brain to play and charge. I don’t remember where it took me, but I remember birds, eggs—trying to save them. From what, I’m not sure. Impending doom of some sort. This could have happened just prior to waking, cooing in the darkness outside our house, filling that space between wakefulness and dream. Or it could be because my daughter has a dove egg propped up on a small blanket under the desk lamp on her dresser. She and my wife found it on the ground near the bird feeder a week ago. We all know the egg isn’t going to hatch. But we also know that stranger things, all weird and wrapped in beauty, happen every day.
∞
Trees emerge from rocky cliffs.
Flowers spring from rooftops.
Blind women see into souls.
Men without legs walk on water.
Deaf children hear the ground.
∞
But all magic isn’t one in a million. We get so steeped in what’s big and moving that we neglect the smallness that thrums our veins moment by moment.
∞
Tis the season for renewal. Birth. Our chance to shake off the cold, ban the snow, and march headlong to warmer days. Riding backroads with windows open to smell the woods and hear the pop and crunch that gravel makes under manmade metal and rubber. Fishing streams for trout, but watching frogs and crayfish, herons and muskrats instead. Family gatherings at the lake. Boat rides that start hot enough for shorts and tank tops but end with sweatshirts and blankets. Yard games. Bonfires. Food and drink and music and great giant breaths of air. In and out. All day, until we begin to blink with heavy lids. And yawn under starry skies. Just little creatures of wonder getting sleepy as they wait inside their shells for the right moment to hatch.
Brush teeth. Wash face. Feed cats. Feed dogs. Grind coffee. Start water boil. Empty dishwasher. Play California Dreaming. Let dogs outside. Wait in the dark. Listen to Lake Huron crash the shore. Feel the cool breeze flow around me. Taste moisture in the air. Hope for rain. Not snow. Start thinking about the morning. All mornings. Wonder at routine. Consider change. Certain I’ve done all of this before. In with the dogs. Boiling water over coffee grounds. Wipe countertops. Tidy up living room. Stretch. Pour coffee. And then they come down. Daughter first. Fresh, clean, bright. Gone are colorful dresses, purposely mismatched socks, hair clips and bows. She’s t-shirts and sweats. Long flowing blond hair. She looks like a girl from the late 70s or early 80s. This morning, it’s a Dirty Dancing t-shirt. Wife is next. Glowing complexion. Smiling. Hair up, which means business. We hug, exchange all that we can so early in the day, and she’s off to the den to log in for work. I ask if she wants coffee. Yes. Creamer? A little. I hand it over then head upstairs. My son sleeps in longer than he should, but he’s 17, needs lots of rest, and like his sister, is on the homestretch. School will be over soon. A few months and they’re free. Sunshine, cottage, friends, work. Plenty of time though to be kids, make decisions, and create a path that will or will not afford them the good fortune of a morning routine.
At the cottage. Wind howling. Rain pounding. And lightning. An eerie delight so early.
I can’t sleep any longer, not because of the weather—Mother Nature doing what she’s always done, rule this place—but because being here after being gone so long, gets me thinking. A dangerous, yet beautiful activity. So many thoughts come simultaneously that I need to engage as soon as possible so that when the wheels start spinning, they have traction. Focus. Solid ground. Direction. That’s what a man needs when he’s caught up in the negotiations between daylight and dark. So, we rolled out of bed about five.
We, meaning me and my dog, Astro. A Husky mix that’s playful, nervous, inquisitive, and always ON when we’re at home. If he’s not playing with his buddy, Iggy the cat, he’s following, laying on, or playing with his life partner, Spindle—the Buggle, a beagle, pug, and bulldog mix. When they’ve had enough of his companionship, he finds his way to me. Watches me work, never completely resting, and nine times out of ten when I look at him, he has at least one eye open, on me.
Astro came for all of us. My wife, my kids, the other pets. We were meant to meet. I know he’s a dog. An animal. But I’m an animal too, and I understand what it’s like to know where it is you’re supposed to be. That there is a connection between all living creatures and love and friendship is love and friendship no matter what we look like, how we smell, or what language we speak. The bond I feel with Astro is old school. Like one of us was sitting at a fire in the wild one night. Lonely. Struggling to stay warm. Contemplating the secrets that darkness keeps. Looking for hope in the flickering flames. The other was making his way through the forest. Doing what was necessary day and night to stay hydrated and fed. Always on the move. One foot in front of the other, but never sure-footed long enough to rest. Propelled forward by an innate will to survive, or anxiousness.
Neither of us expected or asked for a partner. And I’m not sure which one of us was at the fire and which one was in the woods. But here we are now.
The wind and rain are quiet now. The April Fool’s storm has passed. The cottage’s lights and furnace on generator power. Astro is relaxed. It’s a side of him I don’t see often. Zonked out. Both eyes closed. His head on a pillow on the couch. I’m getting there too—to relaxation. But mine will come much later. For now, there’s work to do.
March wrapping up. Leading us into the month of showers so we can have flowers in May. Bright spots. The reward for making it through another winter in Northeastern Lower Michigan.
It was fun when I was a kid. We played in the snow until our clothes and boots were sopping wet and our fingers lost feeling. From morning til night, it was indeed, a winter wonderland.
It wasn’t as tough when I was a younger man. I could throw snow like nobody’s business. Never tiring. Even enjoying the act of lifting over and over again. I would set beers on the bumper of my pickup truck. Shoveling, like anything else, went hand-in-hand with drinking.
Today, older and weaker, I shiver at the thought of having to shovel again. I hope it doesn’t snow anymore this year. Not that I shoveled all that much, anyway. Brooke did most of that. I had the easy job—snowblowing.
As always, we divide and conquer. She doesn’t want to mess around with gasoline, choking, priming, and an extension cord, a clogged chute, deflated tires, and broken shear pins. But I don’t mind it. Even with all its peccadillos, the old Huskee still makes quick work of deep snow, and most of the time, the heavy stuff.
After 15 years, I have come to know that machine pretty well. Top off the gas every third use. Twelve pumps of air per tire each outing. Place it fifteen paces away from the outdoor electrical outlet so the extension cord doesn’t hang in the snow. Push the primer eight times. Adjust the choke. Hold the start button three seconds. Move the throttle closer to the bunny than the turtle, unplug from the outlet, and we’re off.
Once we’re at it, there’s no stopping us.
Except for the slushy mounds that city snowplows layer at the end of our driveway.
It’s been a couple of years since I had to replace a shear pin because I have learned our limits. And so, after Brooke has cleared the main sidewalk to the house, the front and back steps and porches, we meet at the end of the driveway to tackle the big mess. Each of us with a shovel in hand.
The waves. They are back. Not that they were ever really gone. I heard them this morning while standing on the porch waiting for the dogs to stretch, tinkle, and dump. It was a pleasant surprise. So simple. Big water against the shoreline blocks away. The waves took me out of my head—a dangerous and vulnerable place early in the morning—and got me pointed in the right direction.
There is only so much I can do. Is that the truth? Or is that what we tell ourselves to keep comfortable? Seems like it would be easy now to settle into the big fade. Ride out whatever comes my way. Make sure family is happy. Yearn for warmer days. Consider the slower pace that can come with an empty nest. Work away time as clock hands keep turning. Saving for rainy days, or snowy days, or sun.
But the kids are not grown enough to try this world on their own. I’m glad for that. I’d like them here for as long as they’ll have us. And even though my wife and I have plans—travel, hike, read, paint, and write—we know that plans are just words unless they’re put into action. It’s fun to make them, exciting to see them come to fruition, and there is great satisfaction in seeing them through. But is there anything better than having plans? Ideas and hopes. Dreams. A little something to talk about on our walks, at dinner, just before we set ourselves off to sleep.
I’m listening to the sound of waves now. Not the mighty Lake Huron, but ocean waves rushing onto a sandy beach. I do this sometimes because it’s soothing. I bring up YouTube, put on headphones, and let my spirit vacation while the body and brain work. Doing what needs to be done to continue this coming and going, earning and consuming. Waking earlier and earlier each day, eager to get started because I believe that more opportunities are revealed the longer I keep at it. Some mornings start slower than others. I get sidetracked with water, thoughts like waves, but that’s okay.
Here’s to another day of heading in the right direction.
Last night, at about eight, I had showered, put on PJs and was standing at the top of the staircase. I looked down the hallway toward the L room. I felt a pull to go there. Here, where I am this morning. So that I could write. There was a slight moment of inspiration. The urge. But it was eight. I got lazy. Rather than spend an hour writing—maybe two—I sat on the recliner and watched Saved by the Barn with my wife and kid. Heartwarming show, and it was good to be there with them, coming down from the day, but this morning I’m packed full of whatever it is that creeps in when I don’t write. The type of feeling that makes me mad at the traffic passing by. Silliness, I know. And it’s a punishment, no doubt—this dip in happiness and rise in anxiety—because I’m not doing what I’m supposed to.
I don’t have to publish and earn a living by writing. In fact, I like writing whatever I want whenever I want. But when you don’t rely on an activity, when it isn’t a necessity, that activity can easily be set aside. I know how important it is that I write. That I do it regularly. I’ve had this conversation with myself for years. If I stop equating writing to success and success to writing—if I stop seeing writing as something to show and share rather than something to do and feel—then I will be my best, create the most engaging content, and be happiest.
Writing helps my reasoning. It’s a way to filter out the awfulness. The garbage. It’s also a way to bring to the surface all the beauty that goes unnoticed. Not all of it. Strike that. But beauty, anyway. Little bits and large, sweeping scenes. But I prefer the little bits. Snippets. Letters, lines, paragraphs, short stories. I don’t know that I will write a novel because I don’t have the patience. The only way I can do it is by telling several short stories within the larger story. I’ve been trying that with DEVOTION for years now, but it’s slow going. I’ve got myself stretched in so many directions that the book has taken a backseat. By choice. I’ll pick away at it. Come to it when I feel I should be in it. Otherwise, it is forced. Phony. Work.
Speaking of…it’s nearly seven. I’m already feeling late and behind, so I best be rolling on out into that morning traffic with everyone else that chooses to do something other than what they are meant to do. At least for now.
Yesterday, it was a morning fresh with 42 degrees, sprinkles, and a big, bulky dark sky promising rain. Heavy drops with the power to melt the rest of the snow, clean us up and get the world greening. Today, it’s 19 degrees. The world’s gone frozen. Snow covers everything. Again.
This last push is the hardest.
Sunshine and hikes. The cottage and boat rides. Evening bonfires and stargazing. It’s there—I feel it. But there are these dismal days to slog through yet. Not that these moments are worthless. This is the time to take stock. What have we been doing? Where are we headed? What are we doing differently today that engages the parts and layers of us that a life of winters can make dormant? Or maybe that’s too much. Afterall, there’s daily life to live and those responsibilities end up taking us to wherever we are expected to be. Dropping kids at school. Sitting in a cubicle. To the store. Paying bills. Feeding and watering and clothing and heating and cleaning up mess after mess after mess. There’s value in all of this—the busyness, playing roles, earning and paying—but is the satisfaction in making ends meet, or is it in the overlap?
Prepare and plan or do nothing at all. Better weather is coming. Brighter days. We’ll be coming out of hibernation soon. Probably should put away the Oreos and Cheez-Its and buy more lettuce and tuna. We’re getting older and slower, but we don’t need to get fatter, do we? Daylight is friendlier lately. Hangs around longer. The couch still calls in the evenings, but the sun is coaxing us to the windows and doors more and more each day. Everything—overall—is warming up. We’ll get out there soon enough with our smiles and movement and good intentions. Yard work, house work, garage work, cottage work, camp work—good, different work that we don’t mind. Even the real work—the pesky day job—becomes easier to swallow.
Time keeps coming and going. Ticks away in silence. Measured by experience. There’s nothing to do to stop it. Our solace is in the cycles that bind us. We’re connected by the air we breathe, water we drink, and the earth we will become. This is not forgotten or wasted upon us. Not for those of that have grown up experiencing the ebb and flow and ups and downs of seasons. We’re waking with the day already on its way to wherever it’s going to take us. Drinking coffee. Eating breakfast. Listening as loved ones rise and stretch to join us. Into the sun and snow for now, but after that, who knows?
Start early. Get a look at that sky. The stars fuzzier today than they were yesterday. The cold bites deeper. Bones and joints don’t get along as well as they used to. But I stand and wait for the dogs to do their business, one after another. I breathe the morning air, listening to the factory do what it’s always done–provide jobs, sustain families, allow men to piss away paychecks on booze and toys–while it pollutes. The air, sky, water. But that’s how it goes. It is what it is. Insert whatever flip, cliche saying you like. Life just goes on.
We’re all doing this–growing older, feeling the change in mind and body–and I can see why it’s harder on some than others. Essentially, you’re the same kid you’ve always been. The core, I don’t know that it ever changes. And so, it can be hard getting on with the days, doing the simple acts. Not only because they’re more physically demanding, but because I have to change my line of thought. Prioritize. Change the path to endure.
I tend to get too deep early like this. The kids are up. My wife is up. The dogs, they’ve settled into after dog chow mode, and are snoozing. I kinda feel like I’d like to do that too, but I know that laying around with my thoughts isn’t healthy. Days like this it’s important to shake off whatever it is that’s creeping in. The morning traffic–lots of people going places they will regret or hate remembering. The hum of industry–facilitating growth and destruction. The mourning dove perched upon the telephone wire–cooing away the realities of survival, calling out to all that will listen.
Run through the emotions if they come about. There’s no sense hiding from them, fighting them. I spent a lot of my life pushing feelings into my gut. Letting them ball up there, then trying to drown them with as much alcohol as possible. If you ask me why, I’m not sure. Some say it’s learned behavior. Others, genetic. I’ve heard it’s important to know the beginnings, to identify the whys and how things come to be, but I hear lots of things. Every day. And when you hear so much, when the information is flowing in freely from all sides—this one and the others—it’s not easy to focus on one train of thought, to trace the blood through the veins to find out the true purpose of the heart.
So, now, instead of shutting out information and corralling any feelings associated, I pick and choose what to feel, and that means distilling information. Every zero and one may mean something. I don’t doubt there’s a bigger code to be recognized here, but I cannot understand how they string together to make sense. Not in the big picture. The whole scheme. The grand stage. I focus on the bits I can make sense of and save them up as I go. These bits will make sense one day, when I’m close to my end. I know it.
This is the same for all. We are creating our lives as we live. That’s the only way to do it. One cannot become too weighted down in the debts of regret. It’s futile, doesn’t make sense, and it will only stop you from doing what it is you’re meant to do so that you can create your best path possible.
Some travel easier roads than others, or so it seems. All of this moving and climbing and falling and loving and hating—it is all relative, after all. Measuring yourself against others makes no sense. We are not standardized tests. You are not your father, your mother, your brother, your wife, your kids, your lovers. You are you and you can do it—whatever IT is—and you can do it well, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to be your best when you don’t have a chip on your shoulder, have saddled yourself with all that’s gone wrong, and aren’t busy drinking yourself to death.
Life is simple, no matter how hard it gets. It boils down to this—make better choices. When that takes root, clarity comes. Slowly, but it does. Be prepared though, because with clarity comes the reckoning. An honest reveal, and often that can be hard to take, especially if you get past blaming others, balling up your feelings, and drinking yourself away. From IT.
Starry morning skies appear when you need them. Like this morning. Standing on the back porch, holding the leash as the dogs—one at a time—pee, poop, and sniff around. Those bright spots up there are necessary. Reminders. Perspective. Especially when the days here are so cold and dark for so long.
Plenty to do but I don’t want plans. I’m ready to ride the next bull run. Ready for the movie theater to be built so the family can take in entertainment outside the house. Overpriced popcorn. Annoying guests. Ready to take my real estate license exam. Not sure I’ll pass it, but taking the test is the only way to know. Ready to take a ride to the cottage with Dad. Or to Rogers City with Mom. To Tawas with Brooke and the kids. I have to stay busy, not get caught up in these dark lulls.
I used to handle the darkness better. Now, it seems to call to me more often. Misses me, I guess. I spent so much time with it, it now wonders what I’ve been up to. The dark seeps in back doors and the narrowest of cracks. Even a sealed up, remodel with two furnaces can’t beat that. So, I’m stuck between plans and laziness and desire and sleep.
Days are like this. So are nights. And the moments between.
There was the big dipper. Two bright stars holding steady over the funeral home. A hunk of white moon. Then a plane or satellite moving in a straight line. On a mission. Moving people and information and everything that’s inside of me, the dogs, the plans, the successes, failures early mornings, dog piss and dog shit and tepid coffee—a batch leftover from yesterday’s busy afternoon—to wherever all of us need to go. A piece of you there. A piece of me here. All of us part of this big energy, but ourselves, as well.
I want to talk without making a sound. It can be done, you know. But before I can talk, I need to listen. Sharpen my senses. Get past the ringing in my ears, the discomfort in my stomach—there’s something brewing down there—and feel without feeling. Hear without hearing. See without seeing. We’re getting close to this magic. Better yet, we’re getting closer to understanding the magic. The magic, you see, is always here. Up in the stars. In your wife’s laugh. Your kids’ retelling of their day at school. The way a stranger mouths words as they pass you on the sidewalk. Not at you. Not to you. Just them, away in their own part of this energy, their world that they can control and maintain—or try to—walking, one foot in front of the other on as straight a path as possible on another cold, dark day. Whispering to themselves.
Two minutes pass before I realize it. Just a short walk to the kitchen for fresh coffee. Then back. The cat is on my desk again, batting at the mummy with the big red heart that hangs from the old table lamp.
Sip coffee. Enjoy the bitterness.
It doesn’t get Eddie Vedder than this.
That’s what the mug says. Under a picture of Eddie Vedder, barefoot, in jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket, holding a ukulele. My friend, Brandon, got that for me. Out of the blue. A couple years ago. He knows I enjoy Pearl Jam’s music, that I’ve been a fan for years. I should reach out today, make plans for lunch. See what he’s been up to these days.
For us, it used to be jukebox music and drinking, long moments of silence between grand ideas and boozy philosophy. Shuffleboard at the Menopause Lounge. Pool at JJ’s. Hours of barstools and booths. Staring at bottles and frothy pitchers, casually holding onto mug handles and glasses for dear life. All that time doing nothing that felt like something because we knew we were meant for more.
This is it, I guess. The more.
A cat going batshit crazy on my keyboard. My wife and kids sleeping in on the last day of Christmas vacation while my mind runs all over again. A new morning. A new year. The long list rolling out longer each day. Letter by letter, word by word. Finish the novel. Publish the poetry book. Eat right. Sleep more. Turn the clothing rack in the spare room into an elliptical. Stay away from the cookies and candy. Help. Give anonymously. Squeeze as much out of the few moments I get with my son as I can before he is grown and gone. Steal hugs from my daughter. Walk with my wife. Connect with old friends. Take time to listen to the dead.
There’s a lot to do here. Always has been. Always will be. It’s a matter of focus, prioritization, need, and desire. But most of the best work is done without thinking. It’s the doing that counts. And a morning like this, blessed with 30-degree temps cannot be wasted. It’s downright balmy for January in Northeastern Lower Michigan. The air is full of Lake Huron. Promises and precipitation. Opportunities I’ll no doubt discover as I put on my boots, head outside, and take down our Christmas lights.
Ease into the day. Be happy for the simple act of waking, walking downstairs, and making coffee. Today is appreciated a little more because yesterday was harder. Or so it seems when the new morning is dark and damp, fresh with quiet and stars.
Days are inaccurately rated in hindsight because you aren’t the same person you were then—in the yesterdays. So, you are today who you weren’t yesterday. Commenting on your inexperience from a place of more knowledge.
Navigating days gets easier because there’s less difference in daily experience. This is especially true in a small town like this when you confine yourself to your roles and expectations. Comfort…confinement.
But let’s not digress too much. And let’s not forget there’s plenty more to do and feel and observe if we put ourselves in a different situation, position, or shaft of light.
I’m not going to dig away at my past and disparage it anymore. I am forgiving myself for my transgressions. I have learned. I will learn. I want others to learn. And learning, as difficult as it can be—peeling away at memories and layers, finding wounds that never were given a chance to heal—is done by reporting the truth as best as one can. And the truth is that I am a human that’s been navigating alone for most of his life. Not always, of course. I have supportive family, friends, and acquaintances, but I have spent much time and effort avoiding deep human connection. I have shied away from opportunities for close relationships for fear of being found out–I’m as flawed and fucked up as everybody else. I don’t know what I’m doing.
And this ugly truth is not so ugly at all, but real and tangible, ghostly and scary, loving and fluid, confusing and bright, dark and hopeful. Solid as a rock.
I’ve messed up lots. But saying that is only part of it. The confession, the acknowledgment of my flaws—is only a step in the right direction to get past the past and move on. The other part is forgiving myself for unsavory acts, awful thoughts, and all those good deeds left undone. A recognition of the value of well-made mistakes–giving myself a break–is what I need to ease into this dark, starry morning happy for my third Thanksgiving in 30 years without drinking.
There’s only so much you can do. People aren’t going to like you. They aren’t going to understand you. They will question what you’re doing, what you’re thinking about, what you have done, and what you haven’t done. When they can’t find anything else about you that makes them unhappy, they will make something up. So, there does come a point—especially if you know you’re on the part of the path you’re supposed to be on—that you have to say fuck you, fuck off, or go fuck yourself.
Profanity. Terrible, I know. But that about sums it up this morning.
I take advice silently and through observation. The best teachers are those not trying to teach. For me, the most valuable life lessons have come from those that say the least. It’s important to listen and watch, then listen and watch again. Do this enough, you get good at it. As your observation skills improve, it becomes easier to determine which opportunities are worthy of pursuit. This applies to employment, hobbies, relationships, and daily encounters. Clearly, there are many in this world that observe, but they only pay attention to what affects them directly. This, of course, is a mistake. These people rarely have the self-awareness to function properly, and they tend to base their interactions with others solely on how situations affect and have affected them. And these people love to talk about it—whatever it is, usually themselves—and they always have advice. They know how things should be done. They know what they refer to as the Truth. Don’t believe them.
We run into these people often and these situations—ones that leave you feeling misunderstood and frustrated—occur more often than we like to admit. We suffer through unfulfilling relationships, plug away at jobs we hate, and simmer under the surface because we are unhappy doing whatever we feel we must do. But the thing is, we have choices.
You have a choice to do or not do something. When you think there isn’t an opportunity for choice, you’re not thinking hard enough. Creative solutions, workarounds, can bring loads of relief and happiness, but these usually take compromise, self-reflection, and time. So, one must be patient if one cannot make the immediate change one wishes to see. There’s always a solution on some range of the scale that can bring satisfaction. Little wins are important. Also, taking time to remove yourself from a situation, even for a second, to consider how you will or will not react within a moment can make the difference between growth and stagnation. It’s surprising how strong you become when you begin to reason your way through reactions.
I react today by writing. Thinking. Taking a step back to observe myself, where I sit, and what it is I’m contributing and not contributing to the world. It’s important to have these restless mornings. Realizing there’s only so much I can do. That there will always be people disappointed by what I do or don’t do. But that’s what makes being on this path fun and makes me know that I’m doing things right. It’s good to be questioned. To have people push back, disagree, and not believe in you. It’s challenging, sure, but worthwhile because growth can only come when you understand you have a lot to learn.
It’s hard to open a mind that doesn’t want to be open. Same thing goes for hearts and souls. A lot of good people move through life unfulfilled because they’re unwilling to change their narrative. They’ve established a persona, a way people expect them to be, so they fear that being anything else will chip away at their armor, change perspective, and force them to be more than they are.
And they’re right.
Changing course can be challenging. Small movements and little steps can lead you to a better place or take you deeper into the rut. And one rut leads to another. Negativity breeds negativity. Repeating bad habits becomes routine. It doesn’t take long for people to close up, hole themselves away, and blame others for their lot in life. When that happens, it becomes extremely difficult to help them see life in a different light. If alcohol is involved, offering a hand to help someone pry themselves open is nearly impossible.
I knew I wanted to quit drinking. The difficult part was doing it. Not because I couldn’t live without drinking. Not because quitting would change friendships and activities but because drinking was a habit that fit a persona I created when I was younger. Being the drinker, the “fun” guy, the one that could drink no matter what, was what I believed I needed to get me through. I believed drinking helped me cope, made me relax, and helped me be me. I felt right when drinking. And so, to quit that—the ability to pour a glass and get right—was a bit scary.
Giving up a way of life isn’t easy. The day I stopped drinking alcohol wasn’t any different than any other. It came and went without fanfare. It was a private decision. One made on my own in the basement of our old house while on lunch break. All the little steps I had taken over 25 years, forward, backward, and sideways, had led me to the point where change was necessary. The time spent drinking was wasteful and selfish. I made horrible mistakes. Did nefarious things. None of which I would have done had I been sober. Drinking changed my brain. Oh, I thought there were good times, but I wonder now if those good times would have been better without a drink.
I get more out of the days now than I ever have. My ability to think and reason has improved. I have higher highs now, and I do not experience those low lows. If you’re a serious drinker, if you’re really good at it like I was, you know what I mean. Those lovely, sinking, emotional lows when it’s you against the world. Nobody cares. They just don’t get it. Everything has so much meaning but is meaningless at the same time. And you drink more and more because it’s easier to keep going on the path you’re on than to pull back, think of others, and stop.
But you know that’s exactly what you need to do.
Breaking the cycle, getting out and staying out, that’s the hard part. But once you make that break, you’re free. Sure, you have to deal with feelings. You have to begin thinking for yourself because the bottle’s not there to flavor your decision-making. But all it takes is a step. Then another, and another. And it’s not 12 steps. It’s more than that. Much bigger than that. And when you start heading in the right direction, open-minded with nothing to lose and everything to gain, you will be amazed at how productive, strong, and good you are.
Taste of fall this morning. Cool, gusty wind coming off Grand Lake. Lots of waves. The temperature will probably stay below 70. Not cold, but not warm enough for swimming or dragging people around the water on a tube. So, our activities will be land-based. Cornhole, ladder ball, sitting and standing around, talking. All of this is fine and good, and I’m looking forward to it.
Me, these days, always looking forward. But also getting better at looking at the now. And right now it’s pretty good. I’m here with the dogs, with time to wake slowly and drink coffee and write.
I’m growing more comfortable relating to people. It’s not confidence, really. It’s comfort. I’m good with who I am, my flaws, and I understand my past better than ever before. People have much to offer. They have insights, challenges, needs, and desires. The world, as it turns out, is not about me or you. It’s about us and how we relate to one another. It’s about how we take advantage of opportunities to better ourselves, understand others, and carve out our happiness.
The older I get, the more I realize that I can do plenty of things. I know my wheelhouse, so I’m not overreaching, but I’m learning that my core competencies have depths to be explored. And that exploration is advanced and enhanced by letting others in. Meeting. Listening. Talking. But mostly, listening. And the strange thing is the more I engage with others, the more I know about myself. I am discovering what makes us tick.
Communicating is key. For strangers, co-workers, family, and friends. For the world. There are many barriers to break down and overcome, but once we stand on common ground or sit in a booth at a coffee shop, we make progress. We begin to know our potential. The sky opens, light shines, and we begin to see the goodness in work, family, and the mundane.
This level of thinking and approach to life would never have been possible had I kept drinking. Quitting alcohol has allowed me to brighten my days, help others, and let go of anxiety, fear, and frustration. Sure, I still experience those emotions, but it’s not like before. Waking up pissed off at the world, all wound up inside, stuffing frustration down repeatedly so that it built up and had to erupt, mostly over the stupidest things. Issues I created that weren’t really issues at all. But the drinking brain is disorderly in its organization. It believes chaos is the answer. It likes things messy, cluttered, in disarray. It creates a broken reality in which destructive behavior, carelessness, and selfishness are the norm. It’s a ME brain. It’s all about insulating oneself against the outside world because “nobody understands.”
The drinking brain says and does whatever it wants no matter what the situation or company because the drinking brain “tells it like it is” and “just states the truth.” The more you drink, the more “truths” you discover. Soon, you’re swimming in so many of these so-called truths that you cannot function because you cannot relate to others. Except for other drinkers, of course. And so you run with them. You go fishing, and you drink. You watch a game together and drink. You camp and drink. You bowl and drink. You golf and drink. You drink and drink. It’s fun, you think. Relaxing. You’re “just havin’ a good time.” And you do this, over and over again, no matter how shitty you sleep, how awful you feel, and how much regret builds because when you’re in it, that is the truth. Drinking is the answer because you’ve convinced yourself that it calms you, removes the fear, and alleviates anxiety. And when those around you think the same, you get trapped.
Drinking makes you into someone you aren’t meant to be, at least not permanently. I’m an alcoholic, I guess. That’s the term that helps others identify my vice, my flaws, my intentions, and what they should expect from me. But I don’t like that term because drinking is more than the alcohol. There are reasons people migrate to the bottle like bugs to a lightbulb. One is they want to feel better by not feeling at all. The drinker, like a bug, will keep moving toward that warm, fuzzy glow time and time again because they don’t know, or don’t want to remember, anything else.
But they can. And it doesn’t take AA or a priest or jail time or losing friends or hurting family. It takes finding that one moment when you know that it’s not for you, that it doesn’t make sense, that alcohol is, indeed, a poison. And when you understand that, it becomes much easier to grab that fleeting moment of clarity and flip the switch. Begin a different path, away from that promise of warm fuzziness, into reality. It’s not easy. Life is not easy, but it’s navigable. It’s manageable. And letting others in to help, listen, yell at you, play with you, care for you, puts you on the fast track to healing. Because when you open that door, welcoming strangers and family alike, with the intent of just being there in whatever capacity they need, you recognize that you are fixable and good, that you have much to offer, and everything to look forward to.
Another bag of trash to the can, then to the side of the road. Men with manners—they wave, nod, and even smile sometimes in passing—will be here soon to take it away and then lay the empty container on its side in the dewy grass. It’s summer, so hanging off the back of a garbage truck on a cool, sunny morning isn’t that bad. Yet. We’re only months away from cold hard rain, cold hard wind, cold hard snow. Everything cold. And hard.
But that’s okay. We will make the most of it. Watch our boy’s soccer games. Our girl’s silks routines. Do yard work. Regular work. Read new books, watch old movies, and play our favorite board games. Autumn brings color, flavored coffees, and easy walks with the dogs in cool weather. A welcome change of air and temperature and events that usher in months of wondering what it would be like to be snowbirds. The four of us living in a snow shovel-free zone where you can walk without slipping on ice, soaking up slush, and feeling extremities go numb.
Thinking about getting away, living an island life, is often enough to satisfy the itch. If not, there’s always winter vacation. A time to calculate, figure, deliberate and discuss, then CLICK! and we’re off for four nights someplace warm where people continually ask you if you’d like a drink. Where everything is bright and warm and cheerful with all-day all-you-can-eat buffets, giant chess games, pools, lounge chairs, and giant umbrellas where you can lay by the ocean all day if you want, snoring, and nobody gives you a second look.
For now, though, it’s another summer day. Garbage day. A few minutes before work. There’s plenty on the to-do list for me. And as I hear the rumble-roar of the truck down the street, I remember the trash in the bathroom, and in the kitchen, under the sink.
A morning alone at the cottage. No breakfast. Only coffee and water and the buzzing of the 40-year-old refrigerator fueling me as I head straightaway into two years of sobriety, fourteen years of marriage, and another autumn that leads to months of cold, stories unfinished, travels not taken, amends not made.
The water will run. Light will rise. All of it continues or ends but does not wait. I know I don’t have another second, minute, hour, or day, that nothing is mine. And as the traffic rolls North and South on US23—people engaged in gears and motion, the in-between moments of life—I’m aware that the lake will ripple, rock, then settle to glass with or without my touch. The big cedars will get as big as they can get with or without my daytime dreams from the hammock they hold. And everything the grass and air and flowers have heard from me, they will keep.
Individual importance lies in our unimportance. This realization betters one’s chances for peace. Fighting, posturing, siding, and pretending—your wanting to belong to something bigger—is wasted effort, unless, of course, you recognize the wastefulness. If you look carefully to find the spinning wheels beneath people’s motives, actions, and desires, it becomes easy to stop, disconnect, take a breath and peel away the layers you’ve created year after year after year.
Everything aside from the moment I’m in is extra. There are plans. Lists. Hopes. But none of that is guaranteed. There is only the now. Writing while looking out the big window that shows me the green and the blue, and the red swing, and the firepit with tinder and wood piled pyramid style ready and waiting for the next easy evening when we’re all here. At our cottage. Whomever we are. Whenever we are. Unplugged, in the dark, under the stars.
You’re not going to get all the beautiful mornings. Not to the extent that you desire. This one—the best one yet, July 3rd, 2022—is gorgeous. Smooth lake. Warm sunrise. Cool air. Dewy grass shimmering in the light.
Time to kayak, paddleboard, fish. A slow morning cruise around the shoreline and islands. But no, not today. I’m inside with the noisy refrigerator that I’m sure has both comforted and disturbed sleepers and dreamers over years to me that are unknown. After all, we own this place now, but it belonged to other lives for decades. We’re still getting used to the place. It’s our first summer. But it feels like we’ve been here before. Another glitch in the Matrix, perhaps.
Now that I’ve started writing and accepted my morning fate, I’m indifferent. This one’s going to shape up and deliver whatever it chooses. I’ll sit and wait and see. Frustration started brewing as the Keurig filled my coffee cup, but now that feeling is gone, subdued, sunk away to wherever feelings we don’t want to feel go. Astro, the shrimpy Husky cannot be without me for long. This morning, not at all. So, I am anchored to the shore, always within sight. I don’t need to interact with him, though I do, throwing the yellow tennis ball, talking to him, giving him good boys and scratching his chest. He just needs me near. I am his therapy human.
The woman next door isn’t tied to the land, her cottage. She returned from kayaking 20 minutes ago while I threw a lure into the water. Twice. I had to return from the dock after my second cast because Astro was anxious and whining. Bouncing at the end of his leash. I didn’t want him to wake anyone, so I got him into the cottage. Spindle, the Beagle-Pug-Bulldog mix, told me she had to go to the bathroom. While she was out, I filled the coffee maker with water—a slow process because we’re using water from the outside world, a big jug that obviously realizes how precious water is and is reluctant to release it. It took two minutes to fill the Keurig and another minute to fill my water bottle. By the time the coffee was ready, Spindle was barking. The woman next door was now on the dock, stretching, doing push-ups—yoga. She was getting hers. The morning. The beauty.
Or maybe not. She’s not running in and out after dogs. Not waiting for her wife and kids to wake. She is alone, at least for now. And we all deal with that in our own way. Maybe her family is coming later and they are bringing the dogs. Her silence, the quiet world that’s wide open for the taking, or to take her, may disappear.
The old refrigerator has stopped buzzing, clicking, whirring. Spindle made her way into my daughter’s room after I scolded her for talking to the lady next door. So loudly. So early. But she’s snuggled up now. Making sure my kid gets a few more hours of sleep. Astro is on the blue leather couch looking out the big window at the still, bright day that’s unwrapping itself. His ears are up, at attention. Waiting for my next move.
They were here yesterday, soft and playful. Running around the house all day. Needing me. Not for the important stuff. Mom is always there for that. But for games and feats of strength. To reach things up high. Carry them upstairs to bed. Tell them stories. Just be there. Good old, trusty Dad.
Years have passed while I worked, ate, slept, and paid bills. Now, my son drives. Drops off his younger sister at middle school and then shuttles himself down the road to the high school. My kids live lives outside the home. Academics. Athletics. They’re getting smarter and stronger. Engaging in experiences that sharpen senses, develop skills, grow awareness, and deepen hearts. Establishing independence. So, these days, I am a tree or statue. Maybe a rock, I’m not sure. Sometimes they acknowledge me.
My daughter, “Dad, can you open this jar for me?”
My son, “Dad, the car won’t start.”
In these moments, I suddenly feel heroic. I catapult off the couch or spring up from my basement office to assist.
You need olives? I got that! Twist and pop!
Looks like the lights were left on, buddy. Let me show you how to jumpstart it.
My role is changing and my experiences as Dad, as a person, are evolving. Of course, my kids are always going to need me, but the whole point is to nurture, educate, and love them as best I can so they don’t. They are supposed to get out there into the wild, get better at living, and put more good into the world than bad.
My Dad job’s not done. It’s not one I’ll ever retire from. But now, some of my energy can be focused elsewhere. I get to continue my learning and my growth and have as much fun as I can until I can’t reach the top shelf. Open jars. Remember how to start the car. Or until I need to be picked up and carried upstairs to bed.
Let the dogs out at 6:23 am. Was immediately grounded. Taken away from profit and loss, numbers, and the future by birds and sunrise. Cool, damp air. The dogs sniffing, running, doing their thing. The town so still. Quiet. And I remembered summers at the cottage that we haven’t yet had. As if this morning is a memory of memories. Layers we drift to and from, in between, as we wake and sleep. Dig deep or find ourselves floating.
It’s a good feeling, the fluidity. And much needed. A nice gentle, but firm reminder. Like your Mom. Taking your chin between her thumb and forefinger, shaking your head, just a bit. Playfully, but looking into your eyes, reminding you there’s much more going on in this world than you. Be aware, be kind, and don’t be stupid. Now, go on, play with your brothers, but make better decisions.
Words, lessons like that, enter the brain but don’t sit right and click, often for years. Some of us like to run up and down, all around this world and the ones above, below, and between, until we’ve run ourselves ragged. To a place we feel we can never continue. And that’s when you’re faced with choices. When you have an opportunity to reflect, consider, reason.
Many of us don’t use our time wisely. We’re unable to recognize opportunities. We don’t capitalize on them when we do. And so, we sit, get weak and weary and bitter, and we fit ourselves into routines we’ll never break from.
Others, we make the choice to continue on every single time we stop. Even if we’re tired. Weak. Sad. Broken to bits, picking our pieces up off the floor. It might take a while for us to get going again, back up to speed, functioning at full power, but we get there. And we seize opportunities. For us. For those around us. Because it’s much more than you and I. And sometimes, when we stand in the doorway letting morning hold us with its orange sunrise, cool touch and birdsong, we’re reminded of just that.
Two days ago, I watched a Robin pull and stretch a worm from the thawing ground. The Easter Bunny came. Brought the sunshine and brightly colored goodies, as always. Now, the ground is blanketed in white. We’ve been fooled again by the promise of Spring—what we ever really get of it—and the hope of a Summer that lasts more than two months.
So, it goes.
There’s a lot to do, but nothing to do. A funk below the surface that would gladly pull me under, but I don’t get sucked down into it anymore. Not like I used to. Going there, into the darkness, willingly most days, one sip at a time. Now, I prefer to take what I’ve learned from so many trips down the tunnel and apply the lessons here, on the surface.
I don’t need anything else down there. I know what’s there. I understand how it works. Many that explore those depths for long periods of time, never completely come back to the surface. I’m happy that I was able to find my way to the top. That I have control. Not to have control, but to have my life. My consciousness. My beliefs, my lack of beliefs, my rights, and my wrongs. My wife and kids. Down there, you may think you’re in control, that you have friends, but you’re only widening the expanse of the darkness. Making it more and more difficult to find the light. Making yourself more alone. And when you do pop up to make the necessary appearance, the darkness comes with you. I know firsthand.
Make of that what you will.
So, I am on the surface today willing to do the tasks necessary to participate in this experiment. There’s value in this, as my contributions—like yours—no matter how minuscule, have a lasting impact upon others. Creatures, plants, and humans alike. It’s another day of making better decisions. Having more clarity and reason. Making amends for bringing unnecessary darkness into people’s lives. And I’m listening and watching. As best I can. For those that are still down there. Just in case they call for help, so I can offer a hand.
Early morning. I turn on the porch light to feed stray cats. There’s a puddle of blood. A big one.
I remember the red well. From hunting. From accidents. From intent. Just blood. It’s an alarming sight first thing in the morning. And seeing it there, near the warming house we put out for feral cats in the cold, makes me think of the Momma cat that’s been on and off our porch for weeks. Did birthing not go as planned?
There was a body. I see that. How it laid on the old wooden boards that have felt footsteps of creatures come and go over many years. But there’s no hair as if cats made a kill. No skin or flesh or bits of anything. No trails of blood from newborn kittens seeking warmth. No paw prints.
Back inside, I’m at the sink, filling the coffee pot with hot water. We’ve had opossum on the porch, but they seem to get along with the cats just fine. I’ve seen skunks, too, but rarely and if one was involved, it’s likely they would have run away, spraying their stink. Then, I think of owls. Wide-eyed, majestic predators. It’s possible one could be in town, near us. I’ve heard about more owl sightings in the past year than ever before. But maybe, I’m just listening more. Suddenly, I think of our house as a kitty bait pile. A hungry owl could feast every night by simply sitting on a nearby rooftop and waiting patiently for the right moment. Kittens playing. Cats on the prowl.
On the porch, I pour hot water over the blood. Some seeps through the cracks. Some—bright red globules—float away over the edge. The rest, the kind found by crime scene investigators, bonds to whatever invisible blood bonds to, and waits.
But this isn’t a crime. It’s nature. The evolution of life. There’s a lot happening I don’t see. Outside at night while we sleep. Inside at morning while we wake.
Every day, I stretch and rise slower than I used to. Splash cold water over the lines of my face. Put toothpaste on a brush to run over my teeth. Sometimes twice because I never want to lose them. Once I’m revived and recognize the person in the mirror, I return to bed, but only for a few seconds to hug and kiss my warm wife.
Then it’s down the hallway to stir kids that never want to leave their dreams. I get it. I understand. Most days, I don’t want to leave mine, either. I think of that as I run my aching hand atop the railing and descend the creaky staircase so I can look out the window to get that first glimpse of everything before it changes again.
I take a deep breath in, push a deep breath out, then turn on the light.
A few days ago, I set up the basketball hoop in the driveway. My kids and I played. Around the world. Horse and pig. It’s been all shitty weather since. Not an issue, but tiresome. This is living in Michigan. Cold, warm, sun, snow, rain, hail, a breeze, a blustery wind storm—all of it can happen in a day’s time.
This morning, we wake to a thin layer of wet snow on slush and ice. And no school. This is where I am reminded of being a kid, helping get our bus unstuck one winter day. Just a group of kids pushing on a big yellow bus on a backroad. We loved it. It was fun. Part of the everyday adventure of a kid living in the country. Not that the bus got stuck often, but growing up in the 70s and 80s in a rural area seemed to put people in situations they simply aren’t in today. Not better. Not worse. Just different.
We got the bus out. The driver was ecstatic. We were only a little late for school. Some of us dirty, some of us wet. All of us excited and proud of what we had done. That would never fly today. Our bus driver would have been crucified. She was one of the best, strongest, most independent people I’ve ever encountered in my life. Fierce. Funny. Took no bullshit. She hugged us. Asked about what was going on at school, at home. She brought treats to us. Presents. Even let us play our cassette tapes on the bus. But she also broke up fights, kicked kids off buses, and stopped drunk parents from stepping onto the bus to snatch their kids up and take them to God knows where. She was a good human. She made me feel safe, secure, and made going to and from school tolerable. Today, some fame junkie would have Instagrammed her into jail.
That’s what I think about while sipping coffee. Waking slowly. Moving from here—our life of comfort and stability—to my childhood. Growing up.
A snow day now would not be a snow day then. We wouldn’t sleep in, either. Already, my brothers and I would be dressing to get out in it. The snow. The cold. The new day of possibility. If we had a fancy portable basketball hoop like the one in our driveway, we’d shovel so we could play. But we didn’t have as many distractions. Information so ready at our fingertips.
These keys. Doing their trick. Pulling me back there. Into whatever it was. As if it was a life separate from the one I live now. And it’s not. I’m still there, playing in the snow with my brothers. Riding that school bus on good days and bad. And I’m here now. And I’ll be here tomorrow. And so will my kids.
This experience. It changes and rolls out and over us in ways we don’t always understand. We can’t know the value of what we’re in, it seems, until we’re out of it. So, I hope, my kids will write about their lives one day. That they will remember their snow days and relive their bus moments, whatever they may be.
For me. For you. The blue overlays the white, but we fight for clarity as we march toward destiny—an everchanging, growing evolution of experience. We won’t settle, except for slow times when recharging is necessary. An hour on the couch to zone out or laugh, be amazed, or afraid. Two chapters in a chair to feed the soul. Music—always music—in the kitchen, the office, the cars. There’s not much time left, but all the time in the world. Our fortune grows every day. Through kindness and good deeds and doing the best we can for us—all the living and undead—encapsulated within this space. So, we monitor the surface but go deep as necessary to retrieve treasures. One of us will stay watch while the other finds what others are afraid to discover. We will wrestle it free, hold it tight, and rise to show the world. Because that’s what we’re here for. That’s what we’re meant to do. There’s magic everywhere and the finest finds are not always hidden. They are within the depths of simplicity. The underside of the leaf. The tips of earthworms. The sound of swans as they sail through the air. We can’t give up or sleep too long because there is always this work that needs to be done. For me. For you. For the sake of clarity.
That attitude may provide comfort, stability—a way for you to look around at your walls, your possessions, and say—Boy, I’ve got it good. But this is only temporary. And your comfort level can quickly erode if you walk out into the real world believing you have the answers, or worse yet—that you can provide answers. From that, anxiety and frustration can grow.
This is natural. We don’t like to feel that we don’t have control. We don’t want to believe that our happiness can be affected by others. But it can. It is. And we let it happen. If our lives are defined by the expectations and roles of others, we will not be happy. Hard-lined views on adhering to structure and following the rules create turmoil. That’s probably why there’s so much unrest in the world.
Of course, there’s more goodness. More beauty, calm, and peace than most will ever recognize.
A sparrow lands behind me in the driveway as I brush snow from my car. It looks at me. Moves closer. I look at it. Move closer. Soon, we meet. As incredible as it sounds, I pet the bird, then pick it up. We speak silently to each other. It is perfectly fine, it says. It is not sick. It is only a bird. Being brave. It knows when to fly, when to stay. I’ll learn this lesson too, it says. Then it is gone. I look over my shoulder and there is my wife, watching through the big old window. I’m not sure how much she has seen, but it doesn’t matter. Nobody understands what is happening. And it is the scariest thing in the world.
Oh, what a mistake to assume. People don’t understand me. Nobody gets me.
As if I’m the only one that has clarity. Has special moments in this wide, wide world.
It’s just not true.
How many times have we dismissed them? And how much of that dismissal—ignorance—is because we’re not meant to know? If we knew what kept one’s blood red, imagine the power we would have. Consider the chaos. The love. Anything could happen.
But wait. Anything can and does and will continue to happen. That’s why it’s important to avoid the trickery of comfort. The quiet stifling nature of roles and expectations that prop up the structure we move within. It’s important to keep questioning. To watch, listen, and observe. To get out into the world on your own and with others. You will never have the same moment as another person, not even if you are in the same place at the same time, within the same experience. Because you are you. So, to expect others to understand you, to believe you, to know you is a tall task. And, it’s not fair.
They want to be heard and recognized. And they’re scared too. Maybe not all the time, but this moving from day to day isn’t always easy. Shit, indeed, does happen. And it’s important to remember others are at it as well. Doing whatever it takes to figure it out, get through, and be as prepared as possible for whatever, whenever it comes.
So, be happy with what you have but strive to be happy without it. Revel in the fact that loved ones and strangers are around you. Keeping watch. Closer than you think. More often than you know.
Maybe even looking out a big window on another a cold, winter day, having a bird moment of her own.
Can’t go back. Not yet. Maybe one day. We’ll discover this is the metaverse. A computer program. A dream. Or not. The fact is even if we recreated the past, it wouldn’t be the past. That moment. It may feel the same, look and sound the same, but it is not that moment. There is only one moment every time there’s a moment.
Like now.
And we let the moments—our time in this experience—pass. With or without thought. In it or out of it. After all, if one was tuned into every moment, how long could one function? How long would they last? They may end up giving up on everything. Disregarding rules. Forgetting expectations. Abandoning relationships. Walking the streets, muttering to themselves, smiling and toothless, or pounding fists into the pavement. Fearful. Alone. Just voices and light and dark, warm and cold. Searching for fuel to keep the body moving, at least for a few days more.
Most of us fit into the system. Run along as best as we can within the structure. Marking days off the calendar. Checking off to-do lists and bucket lists and shopping lists. Identifying each other by our numbers, our belongings, the rungs we have or have not reached on the ladder to success. Some strange place or feeling that we’re supposed to have if we do this, that, and the other things.
But when we focus too much we can get just as lost as we do when we don’t focus at all. And so, we balance between today and yesterday. We do what needs to be done with an eye on tomorrow. Buckled into our routines, but aware there’s more to come if we make better choices, help others, make even the slightest step outside of our comfort zone.
A different path to work. A different chair at the dinner table. A subtle change in the pattern that shifts progress and alters our course, so we move beyond the pull of the past—wanting to be there again—and step, ever so slightly, into the possibilities of the unknown.
Feed your brain and body better ingredients and better experiences.
Don’t lose sight of stars. The horizon. The patience and magic that rolls a cloud into a whale, a penguin, a buffalo.
Pick up a book. Dedicate yourself to one page a day. Remove yourself from the narrative you’ve created and discover another.
Remember, there are invisible curative properties in autumn’s early morning air. So, get out. Walk your neighborhood, your property, a trail. Look at the ground—always there, holding you. Waiting. Even when you have risen thousands of feet thinking you’ve conquered gravity.
Big Dipper above as I walk to the trash can by the road. A bag of cat shit in hand. But the sky—full-blown with sparkling pinholes of light—gets me right for the day.
This is an opportunity.
Be mindful. Aware. Listen more today than you did yesterday. Learn.
And forgive.
They know not what they do. Though they should.
Common sense. Think before you speak. Be kind. Courageous. Do what you say you’re going to do.
I said I’d stop drinking alcohol a year ago today. I did it. Doing that—ceasing the act—was easy. Everything that comes along with getting back to basics, facing life as it is and not how you want it to be—that’s not so easy.
But, most often, it’s not the act that’s the culprit. It’s everything else that’s been put in play—some of it your own doing, some of it innate—and that, deciphering the narrative you’ve created, that’s the hard part. The sobering part, if you will.
Once you start taking a hard look at yourself, measuring your decisions, weighing consequences, it’s easy to not drink. It’s easy to turn the other cheek. It’s easy to believe in others, and most of all, it’s easy to believe in you. And once you get on that path of believing in yourself, you pick up steam day by day, and become, in a way, unstoppable.
There are endless opportunities to live a better life. To get happy. Sure, there are moments that are still utter shit. That’s how it’s supposed to be. You don’t learn much when everything’s roses.
And there’ll be days…days when you’re teetering on that familiar edge, wondering if you’re gonna make it. Doubting yourself and your ability to help create conditions that foster safety, comfort, and good for your family—for your wife and kids. But clarity will come and balance will be restored with strange, everyday, magical moments.
Like stepping outside on an early Wednesday morning. Feeling the cold. Letting that clean air into your lungs, into your blood, and looking up. At all those stars. So bright, patient, and knowing.
Dads do a lot of dirty work. I know I do. It’s my role. I do dirty deeds so others don’t have to. Not all Dads are like this, but also, I am certainly not a shining example of what a Dad should be. I try, though, and my aim is to get better as time goes on.
Mistakes, I’ve made plenty. And I will continue to do so.
Last night, or this morning rather, it was Astro in his kennel at about ten to four in the morning.
My daughter, Jovi, woke me.
“Astro’s been barking and howling for ten minutes.”
She delivered the news wrapped in a blanket. All I could see was her little round face. After her report, she turned and walked back to her room. Poor kid. Twelve-year olds need their rest. Especially on a school night.
I went into the basement to discover Astro had shit the bed.
Now, he was attempting to pull the old gray towel that sits atop the kennel through the bars of his door. In fact, he’d gotten about half of it through. He’s smart, but I’m not sure how smart. It sure appeared that he was trying to get a clean towel into the kennel so he could sleep on it.
I spent the next half an hour with him and Spindle, his life-partner. Her kennel is next to his, so she had a rough go of it, as well. Eventually, after Astro crapped and crapped and crapped outside, and after Spindle made sure he was okay, we all went up to the empty apartment above our garage. It’s been vacant for months. The family, we use it sometimes for homework, watching movies, playing the PS4, and napping. I rolled up the rug in there and we went to bed. All of us slept soundly until the alarm went off at 5:50 am. He still hasn’t eaten. Spindle looks tired. I am tired too, but I’ll nap later. We’ll be just fine.
Anybody can get up in the middle of the night. I get it. I’m not special, but it does make me think of all the other deeds I have done and that I do. The litter boxes. The cat shit and puke on the floors. The toilets—cleaning and plunging. The sewer pipes. Lifting. Dragging. Hammering, nailing, digging, bracing, carrying, shouldering. The dead pets and animals—ours and those belonging to someone else, Mother Nature, God. Odd how many there have been.
I have amends to make. I don’t feel the guilt about living like I used to. Sobriety has opened up the light. I see it now. Feel it. And it helps me through. Everything will be okay. I’m good. Making the right decisions.
We have all done bad things, got off track. What’s important is that we get back up on the path or make a new road if we have to.
And that is what I have done. What I’m doing.
I’ll be watching Astro today as I work, paper towels and household cleaner at the ready.
“Writing is art,” she said. “Some paintings and artists offend people. You’ll piss off people. Others will like what you do.”
I sipped my coffee. I know this, of course. I’ve been writing long enough to experience the applause and boos of audiences. Some smart. Some not. Everyone with an opinion. And over time, it builds up. But now, I feel I’m about ready to let it all rip. Tear away the niceties. Let the writing do what it has always wanted to do. Run free. And even if it gets ugly and wild, there’ll be beauty.
I’ve spent so much time over the years reigning myself in that my writing has been too measured. Maybe it’s not about the iceberg theory—making meaning by what’s left out. Maybe it’s good to simply say it straight out. Do what the energy wants. Rip off the band-aid. Let it bleed. Let it breathe. Just let it be. And maybe this change is about more than writing. Maybe it’s about my life.
She is right. She usually is. She is my barometer. My mediator. My meditation. My best friend. And so, when she said those simple words this morning, it meant something. Set off a rush of thought and happiness that will fuel me the rest of the day.
That’s the stuff marriage is made of. Not vows and big, look-at-me events. Not flowers, rings, kisses, and hugs. Not even sex. It’s about having the guts to listen, to give way, to unite so you are strong together or apart. So that one day, when you are wrinkled up, deaf, and blind, you are comforted by that familiar spirit that’s there with you, holding your hand in the dark.
Too late in the morning to start a blog. The day, as it sits, feels strange.
We slept in.
Coffee should be further into the bloodstream, but I opened up with a cup of decaf, while the potent stuff brewed.
Cats loaded the litter boxes overnight. Dog shit in the house. Something—one of our furry friends—vomited in the bathroom. Clean up has always been my job. Spills, leaks, clogs, piss, poop, blood, puke. That’s me. I’m numb to the act. It’s not fun, but there are people that have to do it for a living. I choose to do it.
Life goes on.
I want to hit the road today. Get the 4Runner dirty. Run it through mud. Up hills. Into sand. Bump through puddles and smell fall through the open windows. I want to hear gravel pop and shift under the tires. I want to be simple and quiet and reserved. Digest a movie. Disappear. Lock myself away.
Not sure how it gets like this.
We went to a friend’s house last night. Halloween movies by a bonfire. Bacon-wrapped jalapenos. Good conversation. Stars. A wild, leaf-rustling wind that blew over the projector screen three times. We laughed. We got serious. Talked about life and death. A body found in the quarry. Strange happenings. How great it was that the kids were playing together. Not on their phones but engaged with a board game.
My wife got to have a few drinks and relax. Share happy moments. I like hearing her laugh.
I had three decaffeinated, sugar-free sodas and half a bottle of water. This is all new. Being sober in social situations. And it was easy. If anything, I felt kinda bad for all the times I had been at this friend’s house and other friends’ houses, family gatherings, at bars, restaurants, and at my own home too drunk to care about the fact that my wife could not relax. Have fun.
But, there’s no sense beating myself up. That’s what led to all the drinking in the first place. Guilt. Sadness. Not feeling good enough. A whole bag of regret and poor decisions just stewing and stinking it up. And instead of addressing them, I drank.
Sobriety’s interesting. I remember it. And I feel good being back to it.
Normality. Reasoning.
Taking care of shit, doing the clean up as necessary, so we can carry on.
There’s danger in getting too far ahead. In thought. In action. In words. Even if you know something deep in your core, sometimes it’s best to wait to make mention of it.
Time may not exist, but it’s in control.
Desire for the physical is fading. There’s an appeal from within for a slower pace. Walks. Books. Learning. It could be the change of seasons. Could be a change of life. Whatever it is, I’m here to welcome it. There’s no sense fighting much anymore. Most fighting is due to a lack of understanding. And, I lived many years holed up in my own mind. Wrapped up in my own feelings. Concentrating on what I thought. What I wanted. What I didn’t want. All of it was good, even if it was bad, because it’s led me to this part of life.
I like it.
I woke up thinking about all I could do. All I’m not doing. All I want to do. But then, I took comfort in knowing that I will do as I do. What’s important now is the now. Yes, there’s a beautiful future. Certainly, there is the past—all it’s wandering, the bright spots, the darkness. But what matters most is today.
Turning on the lights. Making coffee. Letting the dogs outside. Letting the dogs inside. Talking to the cats. And getting here. To my friends. The keys.
The moon’s still out. High above Eddie’s place across the street. I saw it while putting cat shit in the garbage can. This morning, I don’t feel I’m missing out on—or missing—anything. Life is fine. There’s a comfortable lull of contentedness wrapping up all around me this morning. I don’t feel guilty about it, either.
We’ve come a long way. And now, it’s time to rest. Just a little while. To consider those steps that led us here and plan some steps forward. You see, I have been living all this while, but for many reasons—some yet to be discovered—I just didn’t realize it. It is about taking life one day at a time. Moment by moment, actually. And if you can get yourself to a place of less stress internally, the external world is much easier to experience.
I didn’t stray too far. Just enough to know when it was time to start coming back. And now that I’m feeling good and confident, without the cockiness that comes from insecurity, I believe we’ll go places and have experiences that we were meant to have.
Oh, the steps. Missteps. The energy poured into efforts out of fear. I can see that now. Looking back. And deep down I knew that fear was the driver back then. But life is funny. It takes time. Ups and downs. The right combination to get you to a place like this. Standing at the window, sipping coffee, looking at the road, the sky, and wondering—where to next?
Some mornings I want to wake slowly. Watch myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth and give myself the benefit of the doubt. Some forgiveness.
Overall, we’ve done well. We’re not finished by any means. There’s still so much more living to do. But there are days—like this Summer Sunday morning, feeling closer to Autumn than Spring—that we’re thankful, calm. Peaceful and happy because we’re just fine with the being we’ve become.
Learning hasn’t been easy. For years, I forced myself into the hardest path. Rarely taking advice. Choosing to find my own way, rather than take directions from someone claiming to know what was going to happen. Sure, they got here too—to their mornings of silent recognition. Satisfaction. A willingness to let the day fall where it may. Do nothing. Do something. Do everything. It’s hard to tell, right now. Too early in the morning and the coffee hasn’t hit the bloodstream.
In any case, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t chosen my path. I do regret bad decisions. The parts I played that negatively affected others. But I’m learning to accept those decisions, realize they are part of me, and I’m getting better at not getting hung up on regret. People that don’t rise, that never really reach their potential, spend too much time beating themselves up for moments that have passed. There’s always a way toward salvation. A way to accept yourself. To live with your demons. But you have to cut yourself some slack.
We have skeletons in our closets. Secrets we’ll take to the grave. We shape our story each day with every moment. Action. Non-action. Love. Hate. Fun. Boredom. Generosity. Greed. Acts of kindness. Fights. The key is to focus on the good. Look for the light.
Like a fuzzy caterpillar on the sidewalk as you enjoy a sunshine morning stroll with your wife. A tiny thing of intricacy. Doing whatever it does. Thirty feet from the big lake. In a moment of time and space. Sharing existence and energy on this—our big trip—round and round the sun.
Felt guilty as hell. There was no desire to drink. Just did it. I was driving my son’s car. 2009 Toyota Corolla LE. Going to get it tuned up for him at a friend’s garage. Strange. Surreal. Exciting and worrisome, as dreams often are. I felt good, buzzed up, but I knew it was the phony high—the old friend I thought I had for so many years. The one that helped me make bad decisions. Destroy relationships. Make me hate myself. A lot happened. Reunited with drinking friends, but I wasn’t really happy to see them. Lost an iPhone that wasn’t mine. Then, drove off from a gas station with the Unleaded 89 Octane nozzle still lodged in the Corolla’s filler tube. Didn’t realize it until I got home. And the car had other damage. I never made it to the garage. I don’t remember how I got home. And more guilt piled on. All I wanted was to get my son’s car tuned up, but I got tuned up instead.
And then I woke. Safe in bed. My wife, pretty as ever, sleeping next to me. I took a deep breath. Sat up. Stretched. My head throbbed. I felt unclean. As if I’d been real-life drinking all night.
Heading into ten months of sobriety and getting phantom hangovers.
Life’s funny like that.
I have no desire to drink. Not one iota. I don’t miss it. It is, like a bad relationship. You’re in it, but you think you love the person. You think you’re supposed to tough it out, deal with it. Move in and out of days stepping on eggshells because even though it’s bad, it’s great when it’s great. The laughing, the physicality, the…the…
The excuses.
For me, there isn’t a reason to drink. For years, I conditioned myself to believe that everything—good or bad—was a reason to drink. Instead of living life, really living it, I pumped booze through my bloodstream, got buzzed up, and stayed safely at an arm’s length from anything meaningful.
Not that all the experiences I had while drinking were bad. They weren’t. In fact, some were great. But I often find myself considering how much better they could have been had I been sober.
I’ve no regrets. I’m working through the guilt. Accepting who I am, for better or for worse. Discovering that the most important relationship that I have is with myself. And the better that relationship is—without anything phony in between—the better my relationship with the world. Most importantly, my kids and my wife.
So I wake, with her. Safe in bed. Both of us breathing, healthy, and warm.