Category: Fatherhood

waking slow

May 4th, 2022

The sun brings on the day. Not headlines or pocketbooks. Definitely not desire. Fear plays no part in the cosmos. Those stars do what they do no matter what. Wish upon them all you want. The universe doesn’t care much about your Facebook posts. Your Twitter feed. What you’re wearing. Who you’re dreaming about. What you want to be whenever you stop being what everyone else expects you to be.

I’m up early and empty. I hear my kids waking for school.

My daughter’s footsteps sound little again. Not twelve-year-old heavy. More like four. I imagine her in a long nightshirt, coming downstairs, clutching lamby. Calling for Daddy. But those days have passed. Too soon already. She’s tall, wears eyeshadow. Is stiff as a board when I steal a hug.

Today, at a track meet, my boy will run and high jump and do things with his sixteen-year-old body that I never did. I’ll be there, watching. Wondering at the fact that now, I’ll never catch up to him. This same boy that ran and ran and ran with me across yards and fields.

My wife strolls through the house, light as a feather, talking to the cats, petting the dogs. She is what daybreak should be. She eases into morning better than anyone I’ve ever known. I love her for that.

Makes me think of Roethke and his The Waking.

I wake to sleep and take my waking slow.

When did I get away from books? That big feeling that secrets were kept in letters strung together. Who knows? Desperation too early in life, I suppose. All that creativity and potential drowned in drinking. Trying too hard to be what I thought I’d be instead of learning by going where I had to go.

But all that bad decision-making, as well as some good, has brought me here. A new day in early May writing from the basement of our big old house with my family making sounds above. Silverware, plates, and bowls. Cupboards closed. Chair legs across the wooden floor. Backpacks zipping. The click of the trash can lid. And their footsteps, from room to room, place to place, getting them ready to go.

“This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.”

~ 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
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
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
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
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
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