The Crooked Steeple

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
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
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
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