The Crooked Steeple

a strange moment in the morning

January 14th, 2023

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.

~ KJ
the more

January 2nd, 2023

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.

~ KJ
winter swimming

December 8th, 2022

Words for the taking.

Always waiting for

me to reach

to breach

believe.

Beyond comfort.

I dive and

trust my ability

to breathe

underwater

or hold air

for safekeeping

until my blood and brain

need it most.

Seconds are all I need

to see

hidden secrets.

Locked.

Buried so deep

it hurts to dig and

find them.

What do I do when I get there?

Breath all bubbled out of me,

facing the fear?

Do I turn back

with the weight

of the locked door

heavier than ever

and try for the surface

once more?

Or do I break the lock

and open the door,

hoping there is

enough

air there

to sustain me?

~ KJ
Thanksgiving Morning, 2022

November 24th, 2022

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.

~ KJ
to the kids, from Dad

November 10th, 2022

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.

~ Dad
get out and stay out

September 16th, 2022

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.

~ KJ
the drinking brain after 1 year and 10 months of sobriety

September 4th, 2022

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.

Be good to each other. Reach out.

~ KJ
garbage day

August 10th, 2022

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.

~ KJ
9:30 am, Saturday Morning

August 6th, 2022

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.

~ KJ
morning at the lake

July 3rd, 2022

You’re not going to get all the beautiful mornings. Not to the extent that you desire. This one—the best one yet, July 3^rd, 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.

~ KJ
The Dad Job

May 11th, 2022

I don’t know where it all goes.

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.

~ KJ
into another day

April 22nd, 2022

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.

Here’s to another day.

~ KJ
on the surface

April 19th, 2022

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.

~ KJ
a glimpse of morning

April 6th, 2022

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.

~ KJ
rambling on a snow day – bus moments

March 24th, 2022

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.

~ KJ
simple depth

March 21st, 2022

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.

~ KJ
bird moments

March 14th, 2022

If you feel you’ve got it figured out, you don’t.

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.

~ KJ
they’re growing up

March 7th, 2022

artwork – old blue – © 2022 by Rita Stevens

All we need

we’ll take with us

when we go.

When we leave this place.

Move on to the next.

So, it’s okay

to enjoy

the plastic and metal,

the concrete and virtual.

Go ahead,

experience the highs

and lows.

Run,

walk.

Freefall.

Taste the salt of sweat and tears—our ocean.

Remember the puppies,

the ferret,

the porch full of stray cats,

a mouse in a box,

and birds.

Us, taking them all in,

no matter what.

Don’t forget the plastic turtle sandbox,

swing set,

and trampoline.

Trips to Bronner’s,

soccer fields,

our fishing spot.

Animal ice cream cones,

silks,

and

Camp Peace.

The walks

and hikes

and drives,

and how we always came back

to the big, old blue house.

That invisible connection

that will never break

and will always bring us

back

together again.

~ KJ
patterns to possibilities

March 4th, 2022

woman in red – heading home © 2021 by Rita L Stevens

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.

~ KJ
come down

November 25th, 2021

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.

~ KJ
one year later — looking up

November 3rd, 2021

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.

~ KJ
Dad’s Dirty Deeds

October 26th, 2021

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.

~ KJ
October 21, 2021

October 21st, 2021

“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.

~ KJ
carry on

October 17th, 2021

autumn — art by Brooke Stevens

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.

~KJ
i like it

September 21st, 2021

photo by Josh Redd (@joshredd)

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.

~ KJ
next

August 25th, 2021

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?

~ KJ
our big trip

August 15th, 2021

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.

~ KJ
phantom hangover

July 29th, 2021

tuu Sitthikorn/iStock via Getty Images

Dreamt I drank.

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.

Hopeful.

With another day of promise, waiting.

~ KJ
a prayer

July 27th, 2021

I wrote A Prayer in 2004. I was a different person, but I wasn’t. There’s immaturity in that writing. That’s natural. As artists, we grow—if we dedicate time to the craft. What was best though. was seeing that I’d grown as a person. I don’t even recognize some of the stories. I get the meaning. I know what I was trying to do. I like the finished product. But I have evolved. My thoughts on love, family, life in general, have all changed for the better. But that passion! And some of the topics I wrote about? Abuse, alcoholism, marriage! I knew more than I thought back then. Not fully, but in parts. Glimpses.

That’s what writing has always been about for me. The glimpses. Little scenes. Blips of feeling. I get so caught up in the day-to-day now, that I forget to write about the blips. I neglect to acknowledge their importance. That’s unfortunate. But now that I’m recognizing it, I can fix it. I can remember them. Document them. Share them. And maybe they will make a difference.

Like this morning.

That younger version of me put down on paper what he thought was important. What was moving. And he was right. Sure, the presentation may not have been refined. One would never suspect he actually studied writing and wrote nearly every day. But he captured moments as best he could, like a kid at the kitchen table drawing his family with big, thick crayons. And today, I found that picture. And it made me smile. And I am inspired.

~ KJ
the obvious

June 27th, 2021

Mayflies dot damp sidewalks as we move along with the dogs. Our morning exercise between bouts of rain.

The routes we take are the same. There are only so many streets in this town. Best we can do is switch up our lefts and rights to see the world from different angles at different times.

An inchworm. Translucent green. Dangles from a Maple tree. Spins slowly round and round.

A robin bounces through thick green grass and stops near us. It waits. Listens to a worm move through the earth. Then, it pecks and pulls, stretches the worm out, until it pops from the dirt.

A white wicker rocking chair moves back and forth on the porch of a house on State Street. There’s no wind. Nobody in sight.

The dogs rub noses.

“Did you see that,” I ask.

“They do love each other!” my wife says.

I want to mention the chair. Point to it. Wonder with her at this obvious example of early morning energy, but it’s probably nothing. Things move. And everything’s been in motion forever, and will stay that way, so I keep the obvious to myself.

~ KJ
bird, apple, orange

June 24th, 2021

Bird, apple, orange.

I’m happy to be torn. Into so many pieces.

They see me. Different directions. The refraction. Light on my edges.

The kids’ drip, drip, dripping faucet. The bathroom sink. My little boy is 15. He has a razor and shaves. My little girl is 11. She wears eye shadow sometimes.

They are growing up. I am going back. Collecting cars—Matchbox and Hot Wheels. Playing a handheld Pac-Man game from the 80s. Eating Skittles. Sipping Sprite.

Feeling fine.

Tonight, there’s no time. Just a mild, warm wave of awareness wrapping up all around me. Letting me let go.

And focus.

On the bird my daughter drew for me. The apple and orange my son inspired me to eat. All the moments I have become.

~ KJ
distillation

June 16th, 2021

You know how you wake up with a song in your head and it sticks there while? What if you put on the headphones and played that song? And what if you did it every time you woke with a song in your brain?

Would it change the course of your day?

I think the name of the song in my mind is Save Your Tears by The Weekend. I’m not a pop music guy, but I don’t turn off a decent tune when I hear one. This one is catchy. It must be. It’s been in the background all morning.

I’d certainly like to run away sometimes. Just long enough to regroup. Center. Appreciate—really appreciate coming home.

My restlessness has changed. It no longer propels me into bouts of self-destruction. I don’t need to tear apart the world, break it down and find the pieces that matter. I’ve done that enough times and have enough pieces. It’s time I examine them. Explore where they came from—the moments, what they might mean—and begin piecing them together.

All that destruction.

It’s amazing what we’ll do to escape the simple truths of life.

You know, like the fact that it hurts like hell some days. And other days, you’re animally happy. Blissful, even.

The breaking down is important though. It helped me distill, over time, what matters most. There’s plenty that does, by the way. And those pieces can all be glued together by one power, premise, energy, theme, if you will.

Love.

As corny, Hallmarky, or diary-like it may sound, love is the key. It’s the key, the lock, the door, the house, the block, the neighborhood, the town, the county, the state, the country, the region, the hemisphere, the world.

And beyond.

Funny. The song is still in my head. I’ll give it a listen in a bit. It might be a good release. A couple minutes of escape from expectations so I can revel in the now. Just being. A person able to think and feel and share and reach.

And I continue to do it the only way I know how. From the inside to the outside. Distilling this reality. Fingers to the keys.

~ KJ
seven months

June 12th, 2021

Drinking stops, but thinking does not. As you learn to live all over again—taking baby steps—the world around you continues.

Thirty years of steady alcohol intake trains the body and brain. You don’t notice the aches. The pain. When you’re frustrated, you drink. If you’re tired, you drink. Happy, you drink. Sad, you drink.

Drinking goes with everything.

“I’d rather have a bottle in front of me, than a frontal lobotomy.”

When it stops, much of what you were pushing down comes up. At first, this makes it harder to cope. You can’t turn toward your old friend—The Little Monster—for help. And so, you’re more frustrated than ever. You’ve never gone to anyone before. You haven’t had to think through the process of feeling.

Relearning the art of reason is a bitch.

Your kids don’t get it. Your wife doesn’t get it. If they do, their understanding and any leeway they give you is only for the first few weeks of your sobriety. And that’s fine, what else can you ask of them? They’ve already put up with enough of your shit. Life keeps moving and sure as hell doesn’t wait for you to get better, think clearly, and be happy. So, you suffer in silence. Take your licks. Realize that this return to the world you left so long ago is providing regular doses of punishment that you have earned. The selfishness, bad decisions, and years of pissing away time are all in line, waiting. Day after day, for as long as it takes, to hammer and shape you. To knock you down. Over and over and over again.

Do your best every day to get up, stay up, and reason through the day. You’re going to make poor decisions. That’s part of being human. You still have wants and needs. Probably more now than you did when you were drinking. The thing is, many of those wants will be left unfulfilled. Your needs will go unmet. You can’t focus on the disappointments. Simply recognize them and move on. Celebrate the small moments that feel so big.

Like boiling water for coffee after a morning walk with your wife. One that was shorter than usual and filled with forced silence because even after a dozen years of marriage, you’re new to this. Knowing what to say. What to do. Trying to stop yourself from wanting what you want. So, to fulfill your part of compromise, you shut up. Focus on the ants building homes in sidewalk cracks. Kick pine cones. Wonder why there are so many older men out alone so early in the morning. Walking. Biking. Driving. And you keep one dog moving forward while the other one nudges your calf, softly. Pushing you along. Encouraging you to keep putting one foot in front of the other. When you realize this, you bend over. Pet her. And the nudging stops.

You knew you could pull out of it. That the anxiety and unknown would pass. You’d make it home. Grind coffee while water boiled. Take your I LOVE MY DAD mug out of the cupboard. Then stand and stare at the walls of the big old house around you, considering all the living yet to be done in the undetermined number of days you have left.

The pot hisses. Nearly screams, as you remove it from the heat to mix liquid with grounds in the glass decanter. You push the plunger. Take a deep breath. Sigh.

Four minutes later. At your writing desk. You pour coffee. Lift to drink. And quietly celebrate that you’ve made it this far.

~ KJ
backroads

June 10th, 2021

Get in and ride.

Take the fork. Bend the spoon.

Let the roads expand perception and create our path.

Ignore the compass. Follow the shapeshifting clouds.

Climb the gravelly hill. Roll and brake down the sandy slope. Gas it through the water hole.

Let’s open the moonroof and the windows. Let the lake, earth and forest whirl up all around us, and let’s breathe it—deeply—over and over again.

The miles and miles of hope.

~ KJ
sharing space

May 30th, 2021

May 30^th, 2021

8:35 am

Caring less about what others think, but still caring about their thoughts. Opinions, unless expressed in an interesting way, are useless. Just words. Humans have learned to express themselves more throughout evolution. Tapping into that inner monologue. Letting it rip. From cave walls and stone tablets to papyrus. Newspapers. The internet. Now that there’s so much information, we have to learn to discern.

There’s always been good and bad writing. There have always been people willing to say whatever they can to sway the populace. Get their way. Win. And most of the time, it’s by pointing out how others will lose. In that aspect, I like to take the high road. I don’t like putting down other people. I have opinions too, many of them as stupid as everyone else’s, but I tend not to put those out into the world. When you let stupidity out to live and breathe, it grows, and makes a life of its own.

This learning process is individual, but collective, as well. And the hard part is when one is doing all they can to make good, while others—ignorantly, most of the time—are busy making bad. It’s fascinating how selfish humans are. We innately strive to survive. To protect ourselves and our own. I get it. I do the same. But I also try to remember that we share a space. A planet. The air. A consciousness. There’s deep-rooted connectivity flashing under our surface, but we get so busy with the day-to-day that we neglect the connections. It’s easier to move away than to pull together.

All it takes is one step. Wave to someone as you pass them on the sidewalk. Make eye contact with the cashier. Listen to your kids, your wife, your friends. Really listen to them. Sift through the words, reach into the tone, their facial expressions, the letters they use to create their narrative, and try to understand.

How are they seeing the world today?

~ KJ
less

May 26th, 2021

Rain. The puddles. A grackle at the feeder. These are important today. It isn’t the buzz of the headlines. News twisted to push agendas. Keep them rich. Keep them poor. Sick, sick, sick. Buy, buy, buy. It’s the yellow-eyed black bird holding its long tail in a “V” as it scatters seed onto the porch.

There’s a church bench out there. A twelve-footer. Weathered by snow, wind, rain. The ups and downs of temperature. Waiting for anyone to take a seat. Though it was used only on Sundays, holidays, and special occasions in the past, it saw more action then. Now mostly, we walk past it. Coming and going as families do.

My daughter sits there most. Sometimes on her phone. Other times with a book. But I’ve looked out the window and seen her many times sitting quietly, watching birds, talking to clouds, petting or feeding stray cats. Lately, a spunky black one named Obsidian. She loves it like it’s her own.

I see more these days than I have in the past. Life has slowed. I pick and choose what will consume my energy, use up my time. I don’t waste efforts on what others want me to think because I have my own list of simplicities to explore.

~ KJ
bed head

May 15th, 2021

image from Manchester Orchestra – Bed Head (Official Music Video)

May 15^th, 2021

6:50 am

Awfully tired. But that’s par for the course. Not worthy of mentioning. But I do it anyway because it’s on my mind. The tired feeling has hold of me. I rely now, on coffee. Once I drink the morning sauce and it moves into my bloodstream, I’ll feel awake. Thoughts connect. I move on.

Today. Nothing planned, that I’m aware of. A day to mow the lawn. Deposit recyclables Donate cans. Feels like a day to decompress.

More feelings. That’s interesting.

Fishing will come too. One day. Not feeling it at this moment. But maybe the next.

I can’t get the song BED HEAD out of my head.

“…you and I are panoramic…”

Astro chews on rawhide. I put on headphones. Listen to brown noise. The sound of life is a dog chewing rawhide, but I can’t stand it. It’s agitating. Over it all, in my head, is that song. I’ll have to play it.

There.

Coffee. Music.

We’ll shake the tireds. Push into another day. Be mindful, careful, adventurous. Happy. We’ll get there. Wherever there is.

Don’t stop.

Don’t cry.

“You and I are holy fire.”

It isn’t anything one can understand while they are in it. Unless, that is. You get a glimpse. Could be you have been recreated from memories. Pieced together. That would explain déjà vu. Falling into familiar dreams. Remembering things you’ve never done. That you know of.

All of this could be simulation. I doubt it. I think maybe that’s the next trick. Chalk it all up to something that’s been designed, set forth, instead of us being in the middle of mystery. Instead of us having to be responsible, thoughtful, helpful. As I age, I recognize that people often choose the easy way out.

There.

I listened to the song.

Coffee is kicking in.

I feel so much better. Now.

~ KJ
guarding the nest

April 20th, 2021

Bird eggs. Some still looking intact. On sidewalks and lawns. Some broken in half, the middle oozing out. Others, just shell. We see them when we walk these days. It’s a wild time for nature. The foraging. Nesting. Sunlight, darkness, extreme changes of weather. Survival.

Last night, we purchased a fifty-pound bag of black, oiled, sunflower seeds and a ten-pound bag of cracked yellow corn with purple corn from Tractor Supply. I can’t help wondering if seeing all those birds never to be prompted the purchase. I opened the bags. My wife filled the feeders. The black squirrel found the seed immediately.

Not sure if there are always so many birds that don’t make it, or if we are just noticing it this Spring. I’ve seen eggs out of nests my whole life. Even baby birds. But I’ve never noticed them like this. So many. It’s as if birds are revolting. They know what’s coming. That all that work to bring babies into this world isn’t worth it. It’s too cruel. Too much pain, disappointment, worry. Or it’s that there’s nothing they can do. No matter how much they guard the nest, warm the eggs, they can’t fend off the predators. Blackbirds, crows, blue jays.

They keep trying. Have hope. But sometimes, no matter what you do, there are other plans out there, waiting to unfold.

It’s strange.

Yesterday, my daughter came downstairs. We’re all remote again. I’ve been here, working every day from the basement, since COVID started. But now, at least for a week or two, we’re all here—school, work, doing what we do. Anyway, she came downstairs during a break between class. She had doodled/sketched a bird in black ink. It’s either hanging upside down or rocketing through the sky. And next to it is the simple, beautiful word—Bird. In her eleven-year-old handwriting.

I love my kids. I’ll do whatever I can to help them succeed. To give them a leg up in this world. They are good, smart people, making good choices, doing what they can to enjoy life, please us, play by the rules. It’s sobering to think what waits. I know they will be okay, no matter what. But it’s hard because as they grow, there’s nothing I can do but hope. Guard the nest. Fend off the predators.

~ KJ
ripe for the taking

January 31st, 2021

Get in on whatever you can. Give it some gas. Do what makes you feel good.

Recently, I stepped back from teaching college. That, coupled with sobriety, has helped me reach levels of productivity and relaxation that I haven’t experienced in many years.

I have improved my office space in the basement. Having a comfortable space with meaning facilitates good vibes.

I’ve been working on a shorty story collection and a poetry book, as well as journaling most days. And, of course, there is this. The blogging. Mostly, I think I do this to help clear my head. Regain focus. Get the garbage out so I can keep moving forward.

I’ve been stretching. Sounds weird, I know. It’s not yoga. It’s not intense, nor is there a particular routine that I adhere to. All I know is that stretching in the morning and at intervals throughout the day relieves tension, gets the blood pumping, and is a great way to quickly feel refreshed. Fascinating how something so simple can make a positive impact.

That’s what it’s about though. The simple things. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to enjoy the simple things. I thought I was enjoying them, but it wasn’t until I got right with myself that I realized there is an abundance of beautiful simplicity throughout any given day.

Playing soccer with the dog. Listening to my kids talk about whatever it is they are willing to talk about. Watching my wife do anything—eat, sleep, brush teeth, walk alongside me in the store, down the sidewalk, on a trail. The pile of sunflower seed shells that sits beneath the fat black squirrel that’s always perched on the feeder. Shimmering snowflakes. Chickadees and doves. The creaks of this old house. Tasting an orange. Crunching into a crisp apple. Warm coffee…always, warm coffee.

And this. Whatever it is. The channeling of thought and feeling from heart and gut to head and then to fingers. It’s always been my way of learning, seeing, and relating. I doubt that will ever change. And it’s exciting. Especially now, when so much of the world—this life—has opened, and is ripe for the taking.

~ KJ
unrest

January 4th, 2021

January 4, 2021

7:10 am

Unrest.

That’s what it is. Caged up. Energy to burn, satisfaction wanted, but choosing tasks is difficult. But why choose to do anything? There’s enough in my everyday to keep me busy. With existence dwindling, my focus is on happiness.

I need to publish a book. Poetry, short stories, a novel. Getting closer to this, but daily writing like this feels most important, as it resets my mental and emotional state so I’m able to function.

Writing makes me feel better.

I was a teenage boy that kept a dairy. Then, you were considered a weirdo. Now, kids are encouraged to keep tabs on their feelings, as they should. For me, it was my way of survival. I used to believe that my old journals were useless, but that was because I feared what people would think if they read them.

I feared what I would think, what I’d remember, if I read them.

That’s changed with this fresh perspective. This sobriety. The layers of “reality” stripped away every minute. And I’m looking forward to opening those old journals–those awful diaries–tonight, and remembering all the steps taken to get here. Married. Raising children. Aging. And still writing.

I can’t beat myself up for the person I was, the choices I made. Guilt stifles creativity, prevents vulnerability, and forces familiar behavior. We grow from stepping outside our comfort zone.

Releasing guilt, loving where we came from, and embracing our ugliness, reinforces our humanness.

This existence is to be explored and it is about discovering individual potential. This is done by reaching out. Digging into as much as possible with as much gusto as one can muster. That’s how we unlock the gate, bend the bars, free ourselves from the cage, and run.

~ KJ
8:53 am

December 24th, 2020

Fat and sugar,

salt and caffeine

lift me

when they hit

the bloodstream.

So, I make

Sunday breakfast

for family.

Eat sausage while it cooks.

Sip fresh ground blonde roast.

Listen to Holiday Classics

and my son,

as he tells my wife

about his late-night

spent

eating burgers, broccoli,

chili, rice,

and chips.

watching college football

with weightlifting friends.

The dogs rumble,

Wrestle at my feet,

then run

room to room,

humping hard.

It’s a contest,

I guess.

Establishing dominance.

I salt and pepper the eggs,

turn them,

start the toast,

and my daughter

thump,

thump,

thumps,

down the stairs.

Rhino,

the fat, gray cat

walks through,

paying no mind to us.

He meows, meows, meows

as his belly sways and

dusts the hardwood floor.

With a great leap,

he is on the table,

waiting

for nobody

to feed him.

~ K.J.
a month and three days

December 6th, 2020

Fewer excuses. Less procrastination. Better judgement. That’s what I’ve been experiencing over the last month and three days not drinking alcohol. Granted, I drank half a gallon of vodka and up to half a box of wine a week. Cutting that in half likely would have helped. But, it was time to stop. I was tired.

Physically tired.

Emotionally tired.

Spiritually whipped.

I was tired of me, and I was tired of those around me.

Everyone.

Now, I’m only tired of a select few, and I’m learning to tolerate them.

There hasn’t been earth-shattering progress. It’s been days of simple success. More patient with the world. Less hung up on stupid shit—dirty dishes, vacuuming, harping on the kids about chores. Eventually, it all gets done. This appears to be the opposite of what I opened (the procrastination bit), but it’s not. The vacuuming, the dishes, all the work—it gets done. I have realized that it doesn’t need to get done on my schedule. There are other people in the house, living their lives, doing their things. Bellyaching doesn’t make anything get done sooner.

I’m more active. Lots of walking. My wife and I tally about four to six miles a day. On weekends, we try to hike local trails. Also, I’m doing more fix-its. I put the mantle on the fireplace. It had been in the garage for five years. I fixed our side door. I’m replacing lightbulbs, batteries, cleaning appliances and tools. My goal is to organize the garage, make it into more usable space. Additionally, I’ve been working on remodeling the apartment above our garage. Well, not the remodeling as much as the tear-down. But you have to start somewhere, right? There’s a lot to be said about stopping. Tearing out the old. Bringing in the new. Eventually, that apartment will be a family area—mostly for the kids. An area where they can gather with friends, feel safe, and have fun.

I’m learning to sleep again. For years, I battled rest. Once I was buzzing with drinks at night, I didn’t want to sleep. I felt inspired. I felt creative. I often tried to stay up late and write. While some of that effort yielded decent work, most of it came from a dark place. Most of it was shitty, borderline pathetic, which is typical even of sober writing. However, I began crediting any positive results to pushing my body and mind to their limits. Booze was my muse. I was writing by way of destruction.

One can only go down to the dark of the cellar so many times before it starts looking like a place he ought to stay. I was conditioning myself to believe that I needed to go dark to write well. Of course, I had always known that to be untrue, but it wasn’t until I sprung myself from the drinking trap that I was able to look back and see that the late nights of drinking, the lack of sleep, have only kept me from reaching my potential as a writer.

Now, I’m usually in bed by ten. Gone away into dream within minutes.

Honesty. Drinking clouded my reasoning. My lack of reasoning threw my honesty off balance. I made promises I couldn’t keep. I pounded my chest. Made myself into a person I was not. I was dishonest with myself. This led to dishonesty with others. If you’re not honest, you make bad decisions. I made lifetimes of bad decisions while navigating my drinking life. I can say this now because I am looking at myself through a more critical lens. Not in a harsh way, but in a caring way. Probably in the way my wife looks at me. She wants me to be happy, but to always be better.

I’m starting to see that now. Little my little. Day by day.

~ k.j.
a month and two days

December 5th, 2020

The dogs so happy to be out in the fresh day. Scents everywhere. Running. Pissing. Pooping. Around the yard, through the leaves, sniffing around the small wood pile, sure that something’s there. And it likely is. Or was. Nestled into a crevice. Surrounded by dried grass, leaves, bits of paper, and strands of string. A mouse, perhaps. Maybe a chipmunk.

We get our fill after fifteen minutes. It’s fun, running around with them. Playing.

They tire of it before I do, lead me into the house for sausage treats. They lay on the kitchen floor as I grind coffee and boil water. I talk them through the process every time. They listen intently, heads tilted, ears cocked.

The morning has started well. One can never tell what’s bundled up and waiting in the next minute. Life changes so quickly. But that’s okay. I think I’ve got a handle on it now. A better grip, anyway.

Sobriety does that. Once the fog lifts and the synapses start firing, there’s quiet, moving meaning in every thing.

A black squirrel fattening up on sunflower seed. A Downy Woodpecker jackhammering the suet. Doves cooing from the neighbor’s rooftop.

It’s nice to feel stable. To wake tired, but calm. The heart rate lower. Blood pumping smoothly, steadily, as it should. Sure, there’ve been more aches and pains—joints and back and stomach—but that’s bound to happen when parts aren’t lubed in alcohol. I’ll take the slower pace.

I need to because all of this is new.

~ k.j.
awake again

November 13th, 2020

Up early these days. With the dog, the cats. The stars up in black sky.

This morning, I was ready for snow. Crept downstairs so as not to wake my warm, sleeping family, then stopped at our front door. The house across the street. A Christmas tree in the top right window year-round. Our American peace flag flapping in wind. The neighborhood still. And I wanted a foot-deep blanket of white.

If COVID continues, if it ramps up and we’re forced into lockdown, I hope the snow comes and comes and comes, and does not stop until everything is better. I want us to be inside together for so long that we tire of electronics. Go back to books, board games, and baking. I want to have to shovel a path to the truck. To need 4-LO. To travel treacherous roads to stores that are having a hard time staying stocked and that have cut hours of operation.

I want to bring home non-perishables and steaks. Grill in snowfall. Make snowmen. Buy snowshoes and give that a try.

I’m ready for winter. Perpetual Christmas. A Norman Rockwell life. Away from reality. Tucked in sugar plum dreams. Warmed by a crackling fireplace.

It’s nice to be awake like this, again. Especially with fresh thoughts, the pets, the stars, so early in the morning.

~ KJ
she sleeps

October 23rd, 2020

She sleeps

so soundly,

but I don’t

because

I don’t know how.

There’s too much

pounding

in my brain,

ringing

in my ears.

And there’s

ache

in

my hands,

wrists,

hips,

and feet.

I can’t stop

thinking

about how night wraps up

all around me,

us,

and how eventually

it wins.

Takes everything.

Makes it dark.

And so

at night,

I battle.

Fight it

as best I can.

But it’s hard

with the way

spirits line up

alongside the bed.

Waiting.

Thank God,

she doesn’t hear them,

see them,

feel them,

and she sleeps

so soundly.

~ KJ
freewriting blasphemy

September 20th, 2020

(Recently, I asked my students to experiment with freewriting…just letting words roll out from wherever they come. So, I thought I would do the same.)

I don’t feel like being metaphorical or creative or moving this morning. I want to get on with the day, but it’s already here. Somehow, I get into it without even knowing. That’s why I need these moments of nothing. Just existing. Some meditate. Some pray. But for me, writing is the way to go. It’s a great way to express my feelings and burn the carbon out while exercising my limited vocabulary. But really, how many words does a person need? Get to the point. Say more with less. Save your savory language for dreams.

This may be a dream.

Occasionally, I believe I’m dead, but that my will to survive is so strong that I won’t let go of this reality. And so, I’m plugging along, going through the motions, creating sequences of events—complete with characters, action, comedy, and drama—because I’m afraid of the next dimension.

I see it sometimes. It’s similar to this one, but has me in another place, another time, with other people that aren’t my family. Well, they are my family there, but not my family here. And I’m just not ready to give up on this group yet. There’s still lots of love and work and play to be done.

Are we ever done?

Do we simply reboot and start over again?

Physical death is one thing, but the death of the mind and spirit is different. They can explain it all away as scientifically and godly as they like, but my beliefs are stronger. At least that’s part of the character I play. Here. In this life. In the next, I hope I level up. That I have grown.

The ringing in my ears gets louder every day. I wonder now, is that the next dimension calling? Am I overstaying my welcome? Are there scenes that cannot be completed without me there?

It’s nonsense. It’s delusional. It’s psychotic. But what’s to say it’s not real?

Why can’t there be many dimensions all operating at once? And why can’t we travel back and forth? I’m confident I can get THERE, but I’m not sure I can get back HERE.

Are moments of Deja-vu evidence? Remnants?

Am I here, but also there right now? And if I am there, how am I operating without my core components—all that makes me well, ME?

This is a perfect discussion for a Sunday morning. Religious. Out of this world. Beliefs hanging on miracles. Angels and water into wine and healing. Rising from the dead. Doesn’t seem all that crazy, does it? Maybe if we do enough good, get centered, keep our bodies and minds clear, we are able to do unearthly deeds and simple things that can reshape the world.

No, I’m not a Jesus freak. Definitely not a Bible banger. Some people go to church because they are lost, but that’s not a good reason to go anywhere. If you’re lost, stay home. Dig deep into yourself without the guidance of those that want you to be the way they want you to be.

Create your own beliefs. Your own religion. Your own church.

~ KJ
life doesn’t wait for backed up sewer lines

September 10th, 2020

In two inches of shitty water. Plunging the drain in the basement. Over and over again. Wads of hair. Toilet paper. Band-aids. Pieces of foil. Rubber bands. Bits of unidentifiable things built up over years, even long before we got here. It splashes me. It stinks. But it’s nearly midnight and I’m not losing this battle.

I don’t give up.

There’s too much going on in life right now. Clogs are not allowed.

The kids are adjusting to new schools, more responsibility, social distancing, and daily unknowns. It’s not easy. I remember. I was there. But they are kids. They’ll be all right. They are growing and learning, and challenges present themselves so we learn to adapt. Change course. Do what needs to be done to survive and keep on keepin’ on.

My wife has been working long hours. Up early, at it all day, and still at it into the evening. She’s brilliant. Helping students and parents navigate this new world of education. It’s stressful. Emotionally and mentally taxing, but she simply smiles. She’s got patience, creativity, and good old-fashioned street smarts.

They have full days, but they still have time. To play, read, listen to music, exercise, watch TV. Relax. It’s a balancing act, for sure, but the longer we’re at it, the better we get. We’re not perfect. We argue. We disagree. We don’t always listen well or act as we should. But we know these things, are quick to fess up when we’ve made mistakes, support one another, and we move on. It’s a no-bullshit kind of household, filled with opportunity, honesty, and love. The kind that’s fluid, without bounds, that keeps going and going. No matter what tries to clog the way.

I stare at the dirty clothes piled on the washing machine. My boy needs his soccer uniform for tomorrow. There’s a shirt in there my daughter wants to wear. My wife has got to be near the end of her bra inventory. And I am missing the comfort of my Pearl Jam and Rage Against the Machine t-shirts. There are dishes to wash. Showers to take. Life doesn’t wait for backed up sewer lines.

So, I bear down and plunge like a jackhammer. For five minutes, until sweat drips down my nose and my forearms burn. This, this type of awful mess, is not allowed in our home. Finally, when I stop, the chunky brown water begins to move. Slowly toward the center until all at once there is a great swirling rush and it is gone.

~ KJ
crossing the road

August 30th, 2020

Early Sunday morning. A car stops on State Street because a flock of geese crosses the road. They are doing what they’ve been doing for millions of years. Moving from Point A to Point B. They’ve experienced disease, drought, famine, and legitimate predators—not the weekend gun-jockeys that pop them off in parks during three-day hunts sanctioned by the city—and they have survived. But this driver doesn’t give a shit. Agitated, they honk their horn.

They’ve got someplace important to be.

McDonald’s for breakfast.

The Marathon station for smokes.

Their weekly dose of righteousness.

When the oncoming lane clears, the driver swerves over the center line and races down the street.

I get it. We have lives to live. Roles to fulfill and expectations to meet. There’s pressure, real or not, that we feel on a daily basis. And when we don’t address it, it builds. And it can get ugly. We get irritated. We put up walls. Or worse yet, we reach out to other frustrated fucks and commiserate. Strengthening negativity and feeding the ignorance that grows as a result of blindly following like-mindedness.

Pick your party.

Your flavor.

Your team.

We all want to be heard. But nobody wants to listen.

Not to one another. Not to the moment.

And especially not to the goddamned geese.

~ K.J.
raising kids–it’s a crapshoot

August 11th, 2020

oh…so long ago…

This kid thing isn’t easy. That’s why it’s rewarding. They push and stretch and shape you in ways you could never imagine. It’s all good though. As long as you can keep your guts out of it as necessary, and make logical decisions based on reason, they turn out okay.

None of them are perfect. But this is a mistake many parents make. They pump their kids up and up and up so that they end up being self-centered, self-important, and delusional. Lots of potential presidential candidates, I know. But I want my kids to aim higher.

We eat meals together and they eat what’s served to them. We take family walks, hikes, and bike rides. Their online time is limited. They read books. Paint. Draw. And exercise. They are taught to do their best to listen to others, to seek to understand, and fight only when absolutely necessary. I have to admit, though. There’s only so much I can do. Once they leave the house, it’s a crapshoot.

I can only hope they make good decisions.

I’m not a great parent. I would consider myself so-so. But I’m trying and I am doing what I can to learn as I go. I have always had little faith in those that profess to know the answers. I’m stubborn. I learn the hard way. And I expect my kids will be the same. But that’s okay because it’s important to me that people find their own answers. Don’t follow blindly. Don’t believe everything you read, hear, or see, especially if it aligns with your beliefs.

Question, question, question. Everything.

It’s okay to have different answers. To do things differently. Individuals and families have to find what works for them. Be mindful of others. Be kind. Be aware that you aren’t the only being spinning around through space on a big ball of dirt.

I’m not saying that what I do with my kids is better than what you do with your kids. If feeding them fast food, buying them everything they want, fighting their battles for them, and letting them get fat from drinking soda, snacking on Ho Hos and reveling in inactivity is your happiness and their happiness, have it at.

It is ‘Merica after all.

~ K.J.
twelve years into it

August 9th, 2020

monarchs @ 2012 by Brooke Stevens

The sky threatened for hours. Light, then dark. Light, then dark. Light, then an expanse of dull gray, puffed up and floating above the big lake and our little town. The rain, mostly unpredictable sprinkles, came and went. Came and went. But we welcomed the day, and we were happy.

This was yesterday. Our anniversary. A dozen years.

We celebrated as we do everything else. In low-key fashion. Quietly going about our business. Happy being together doing nothing. Just taking time to let the world spin us round. Let the program run us through The Matrix. Let whatever this is just be.

And we lived large.

I made breakfast—fried farm-fresh eggs, bacon, and toast. We took TWO, that’s right, TWO two-mile walks around the river, along the lake, through our neighborhood. We made a trip to Meijer for a toilet flapper and to splurge on the top-shelf sushi for lunch. Made a trip to Biggby. Took a four-mile bike ride. Napped. Did our own things for an hour or two—I wrote, then read a new book. She watched TV, then relaxed on our porch. We ate a binge-worthy dinner of chicken wings and smoked pork, courtesy of my brother-in-law. We even had a guy come over and give us a quote for some home repairs. Why? Because, that’s how we roll!

All kidding aside, it was fun. Twelve-years of marriage fun. We coasted into the evening with a few drinks, a couple rounds of Ticket to Ride, then settled into the couch for an anniversary favorite—Superbad.

I proposed to her during that movie. Can you believe it? And she still said yes.

I think it’s because she’s better than me. She knew I needed some work. A little help. Sure, there’s love and all. But a lot of the time we’re together, I can’t help thinking I’m along for the ride. She knows where we’re going. She knows what’s next. She has patience. Listens. Understands.

I saw it yesterday. On our bike ride. The sprinkles were getting bigger. Drops getting heavier. We were three miles into it. And there was a butterfly. A Monarch, struggling on the sidewalk.

“What are you doing, butterfly? Come on, get up. You can fly in the rain.”

And it did. Up and alongside her. Looping around in the air, as if dodging rain drops. Following her, until she led us past the biggest maple on Second Avenue.

It landed on the trunk and was still.

“Bye, butterfly!” she said.

And I knew this would last. Us in the rain. Twelve years into it. Me, following her. Waiting for the next moment to remember.

~ KJ
our new home

November 5th, 2022

This is a good sleeping house. I say this because I’ve been sleeping better. My family has been sleeping better. The pets seem to have adjusted nicely too. I enjoy walking around the house. It’s not that big, but there’s a life path—a circle—that connects the study, the kitchen, living room, and dining room. There are windows, big ones, in all these rooms except the kitchen, so walking this path provides different pictures of the world each time. There’s frequent traffic and pedestrians, which I thought would drive me crazy, but that I enjoy. I feel that I’m in the middle of something, an activity, and it’s good for the spirit.

I sat in Earl’s rocking chair today under the light of my wife’s Grandma’s antique lamp and read Hallelujah Anyway by Anne Lamott. I’ve been picking away at that book for a couple years now. It’s short, 176 pages, but it’s not a read-through-it-right-away book. Not for me. It’s poetic. Prosey. So, I engage when the mood strikes me. I think I’d get along with Anne. Maybe not. She has spunk, is flawed, is thoughtful—maybe too thoughtful—and would be an excellent resource. A jaded oracle. A once wild Aunt that offers advice without saying a word. I could learn how to write better from her, as well. Which I suppose I’m doing by reading her work. In Earl’s rocking chair. That’s the name of the man who died several years ago. He lived a block and a half from our old house. His family had an estate sale. I bought his rocking chair, but never really used it. Now, I know why. It was meant for this house.

Writing, as much of an old friend and comfort that it is, is indeed work. And work needs doing. I haven’t been doing as much as I ought to. Now is the time when I should be most prolific. I’ve been around a while, have some experience under my belt, understand what works and doesn’t—for the most part—when it comes to life and writing. What needs to happen now is that I get over my laziness. This can only be done by setting aside excuses. I disguise my laziness and excuses by saying I choose to prioritize and devote energy to more important things, but watching Love is Blind with my wife at night while eating Doritos doesn’t require much energy. Or thought, for that matter.

When it comes to shows like that, I do enjoy seeing people make mistakes. Not because I want them to suffer, but because the mistakes they make—saying awful things, selfishness, portraying an image of themselves rather than their real selves gives them great opportunity to rise up and be better, but they don’t. I also like to see how relationships start, how they end, the intricacies of personal development, how people miss obvious moments for breakthroughs, but most of all, how people are unaware of the quiet importance of incremental growth.

Change can happen overnight, but slow and steady does win the race. Sitting with my wife for an hour at night, watching other couples screw things up, makes me thankful for what we have. I’m not sure what it is, exactly—the IT—but we have it, and it works, and I don’t think it’s something that can be labeled. I don’t want our marriage to be boiled down to one word or phrase because that isn’t who we are. We, like many other couples navigating this life, have a system that works. We are quiet about it. We do our own thing. We like it.

This new old house has us sleeping better. Feeling good. We’re on our path—a circle—that we know starts and ends in the same spot. There are windows along the way, places where we can stop and watch the world, and the world can stop and watch us. There’s frequent traffic and activity, inside and out, and I enjoy it because I feel that we’re all sharing this middle of something, connected, and our spirit grows.

~ KJ