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.
Feels like it will never get warm. I can’t bitch though. It’s only January. We have plenty of cold yet to go. Shoveling, scraping. Numb fingers and toes. But that’s fine. That’s what we’ve signed on for. If we didn’t want to be here, we’d move.
Right?
The virus rhetoric is amping up. Politicians are positioning. I’m being told things are bad, bad, bad, but I’m choosing to feel good. Fuck ‘em, as they say. The less I tune into the bullshit, the less shitty I feel. It’s not as hard or tricky or as manipulated as I once believed it to be. It, quite frankly, depends on me and how I react to the world.
Do what is right. That’s the CODE.
And by now, at 48, it’s easy to see that even though people, moments, and experiences are complex, the answer is simple. Do what’s right. And most of the time, that has nothing to do with me.
Getting outside myself is key. To health. Happiness. And how well I navigate and participate in the world. I thrive on watching and listening, but no longer am I happy as a bystander. I’m facilitating positive change as best I can, one decision at a time.
But people want mob mentality. They want me to belong to a cause, a side, a movement. But that’s not going to happen. I am moving, slowly but surely, on my own. Navigating my days with family, and goodness in mind, so that all of us have opportunities to grow and learn and put good into the world.
That’s what it’s about. Not the temperature. Not illness. Not life or death. But the in-between. The part here, while the lights are still on.
Feed your brain and body better ingredients and better experiences.
Don’t lose sight of stars. The horizon. The patience and magic that rolls a cloud into a whale, a penguin, a buffalo.
Pick up a book. Dedicate yourself to one page a day. Remove yourself from the narrative you’ve created and discover another.
Remember, there are invisible curative properties in autumn’s early morning air. So, get out. Walk your neighborhood, your property, a trail. Look at the ground—always there, holding you. Waiting. Even when you have risen thousands of feet thinking you’ve conquered gravity.
Big Dipper above as I walk to the trash can by the road. A bag of cat shit in hand. But the sky—full-blown with sparkling pinholes of light—gets me right for the day.
This is an opportunity.
Be mindful. Aware. Listen more today than you did yesterday. Learn.
And forgive.
They know not what they do. Though they should.
Common sense. Think before you speak. Be kind. Courageous. Do what you say you’re going to do.
I said I’d stop drinking alcohol a year ago today. I did it. Doing that—ceasing the act—was easy. Everything that comes along with getting back to basics, facing life as it is and not how you want it to be—that’s not so easy.
But, most often, it’s not the act that’s the culprit. It’s everything else that’s been put in play—some of it your own doing, some of it innate—and that, deciphering the narrative you’ve created, that’s the hard part. The sobering part, if you will.
Once you start taking a hard look at yourself, measuring your decisions, weighing consequences, it’s easy to not drink. It’s easy to turn the other cheek. It’s easy to believe in others, and most of all, it’s easy to believe in you. And once you get on that path of believing in yourself, you pick up steam day by day, and become, in a way, unstoppable.
There are endless opportunities to live a better life. To get happy. Sure, there are moments that are still utter shit. That’s how it’s supposed to be. You don’t learn much when everything’s roses.
And there’ll be days…days when you’re teetering on that familiar edge, wondering if you’re gonna make it. Doubting yourself and your ability to help create conditions that foster safety, comfort, and good for your family—for your wife and kids. But clarity will come and balance will be restored with strange, everyday, magical moments.
Like stepping outside on an early Wednesday morning. Feeling the cold. Letting that clean air into your lungs, into your blood, and looking up. At all those stars. So bright, patient, and knowing.
Dads do a lot of dirty work. I know I do. It’s my role. I do dirty deeds so others don’t have to. Not all Dads are like this, but also, I am certainly not a shining example of what a Dad should be. I try, though, and my aim is to get better as time goes on.
Mistakes, I’ve made plenty. And I will continue to do so.
Last night, or this morning rather, it was Astro in his kennel at about ten to four in the morning.
My daughter, Jovi, woke me.
“Astro’s been barking and howling for ten minutes.”
She delivered the news wrapped in a blanket. All I could see was her little round face. After her report, she turned and walked back to her room. Poor kid. Twelve-year olds need their rest. Especially on a school night.
I went into the basement to discover Astro had shit the bed.
Now, he was attempting to pull the old gray towel that sits atop the kennel through the bars of his door. In fact, he’d gotten about half of it through. He’s smart, but I’m not sure how smart. It sure appeared that he was trying to get a clean towel into the kennel so he could sleep on it.
I spent the next half an hour with him and Spindle, his life-partner. Her kennel is next to his, so she had a rough go of it, as well. Eventually, after Astro crapped and crapped and crapped outside, and after Spindle made sure he was okay, we all went up to the empty apartment above our garage. It’s been vacant for months. The family, we use it sometimes for homework, watching movies, playing the PS4, and napping. I rolled up the rug in there and we went to bed. All of us slept soundly until the alarm went off at 5:50 am. He still hasn’t eaten. Spindle looks tired. I am tired too, but I’ll nap later. We’ll be just fine.
Anybody can get up in the middle of the night. I get it. I’m not special, but it does make me think of all the other deeds I have done and that I do. The litter boxes. The cat shit and puke on the floors. The toilets—cleaning and plunging. The sewer pipes. Lifting. Dragging. Hammering, nailing, digging, bracing, carrying, shouldering. The dead pets and animals—ours and those belonging to someone else, Mother Nature, God. Odd how many there have been.
I have amends to make. I don’t feel the guilt about living like I used to. Sobriety has opened up the light. I see it now. Feel it. And it helps me through. Everything will be okay. I’m good. Making the right decisions.
We have all done bad things, got off track. What’s important is that we get back up on the path or make a new road if we have to.
And that is what I have done. What I’m doing.
I’ll be watching Astro today as I work, paper towels and household cleaner at the ready.
“Writing is art,” she said. “Some paintings and artists offend people. You’ll piss off people. Others will like what you do.”
I sipped my coffee. I know this, of course. I’ve been writing long enough to experience the applause and boos of audiences. Some smart. Some not. Everyone with an opinion. And over time, it builds up. But now, I feel I’m about ready to let it all rip. Tear away the niceties. Let the writing do what it has always wanted to do. Run free. And even if it gets ugly and wild, there’ll be beauty.
I’ve spent so much time over the years reigning myself in that my writing has been too measured. Maybe it’s not about the iceberg theory—making meaning by what’s left out. Maybe it’s good to simply say it straight out. Do what the energy wants. Rip off the band-aid. Let it bleed. Let it breathe. Just let it be. And maybe this change is about more than writing. Maybe it’s about my life.
She is right. She usually is. She is my barometer. My mediator. My meditation. My best friend. And so, when she said those simple words this morning, it meant something. Set off a rush of thought and happiness that will fuel me the rest of the day.
That’s the stuff marriage is made of. Not vows and big, look-at-me events. Not flowers, rings, kisses, and hugs. Not even sex. It’s about having the guts to listen, to give way, to unite so you are strong together or apart. So that one day, when you are wrinkled up, deaf, and blind, you are comforted by that familiar spirit that’s there with you, holding your hand in the dark.
Too late in the morning to start a blog. The day, as it sits, feels strange.
We slept in.
Coffee should be further into the bloodstream, but I opened up with a cup of decaf, while the potent stuff brewed.
Cats loaded the litter boxes overnight. Dog shit in the house. Something—one of our furry friends—vomited in the bathroom. Clean up has always been my job. Spills, leaks, clogs, piss, poop, blood, puke. That’s me. I’m numb to the act. It’s not fun, but there are people that have to do it for a living. I choose to do it.
Life goes on.
I want to hit the road today. Get the 4Runner dirty. Run it through mud. Up hills. Into sand. Bump through puddles and smell fall through the open windows. I want to hear gravel pop and shift under the tires. I want to be simple and quiet and reserved. Digest a movie. Disappear. Lock myself away.
Not sure how it gets like this.
We went to a friend’s house last night. Halloween movies by a bonfire. Bacon-wrapped jalapenos. Good conversation. Stars. A wild, leaf-rustling wind that blew over the projector screen three times. We laughed. We got serious. Talked about life and death. A body found in the quarry. Strange happenings. How great it was that the kids were playing together. Not on their phones but engaged with a board game.
My wife got to have a few drinks and relax. Share happy moments. I like hearing her laugh.
I had three decaffeinated, sugar-free sodas and half a bottle of water. This is all new. Being sober in social situations. And it was easy. If anything, I felt kinda bad for all the times I had been at this friend’s house and other friends’ houses, family gatherings, at bars, restaurants, and at my own home too drunk to care about the fact that my wife could not relax. Have fun.
But, there’s no sense beating myself up. That’s what led to all the drinking in the first place. Guilt. Sadness. Not feeling good enough. A whole bag of regret and poor decisions just stewing and stinking it up. And instead of addressing them, I drank.
Sobriety’s interesting. I remember it. And I feel good being back to it.
Normality. Reasoning.
Taking care of shit, doing the clean up as necessary, so we can carry on.
There’s danger in getting too far ahead. In thought. In action. In words. Even if you know something deep in your core, sometimes it’s best to wait to make mention of it.
Time may not exist, but it’s in control.
Desire for the physical is fading. There’s an appeal from within for a slower pace. Walks. Books. Learning. It could be the change of seasons. Could be a change of life. Whatever it is, I’m here to welcome it. There’s no sense fighting much anymore. Most fighting is due to a lack of understanding. And, I lived many years holed up in my own mind. Wrapped up in my own feelings. Concentrating on what I thought. What I wanted. What I didn’t want. All of it was good, even if it was bad, because it’s led me to this part of life.
I like it.
I woke up thinking about all I could do. All I’m not doing. All I want to do. But then, I took comfort in knowing that I will do as I do. What’s important now is the now. Yes, there’s a beautiful future. Certainly, there is the past—all it’s wandering, the bright spots, the darkness. But what matters most is today.
Turning on the lights. Making coffee. Letting the dogs outside. Letting the dogs inside. Talking to the cats. And getting here. To my friends. The keys.
The moon’s still out. High above Eddie’s place across the street. I saw it while putting cat shit in the garbage can. This morning, I don’t feel I’m missing out on—or missing—anything. Life is fine. There’s a comfortable lull of contentedness wrapping up all around me this morning. I don’t feel guilty about it, either.
We’ve come a long way. And now, it’s time to rest. Just a little while. To consider those steps that led us here and plan some steps forward. You see, I have been living all this while, but for many reasons—some yet to be discovered—I just didn’t realize it. It is about taking life one day at a time. Moment by moment, actually. And if you can get yourself to a place of less stress internally, the external world is much easier to experience.
I didn’t stray too far. Just enough to know when it was time to start coming back. And now that I’m feeling good and confident, without the cockiness that comes from insecurity, I believe we’ll go places and have experiences that we were meant to have.
Oh, the steps. Missteps. The energy poured into efforts out of fear. I can see that now. Looking back. And deep down I knew that fear was the driver back then. But life is funny. It takes time. Ups and downs. The right combination to get you to a place like this. Standing at the window, sipping coffee, looking at the road, the sky, and wondering—where to next?
The Crooked Steeple 