Category: Parenthood

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
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
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
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
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