Tag: creative writing

winter marriages

March 28th, 2023

March wrapping up. Leading us into the month of showers so we can have flowers in May. Bright spots. The reward for making it through another winter in Northeastern Lower Michigan.

It was fun when I was a kid. We played in the snow until our clothes and boots were sopping wet and our fingers lost feeling. From morning til night, it was indeed, a winter wonderland.

It wasn’t as tough when I was a younger man. I could throw snow like nobody’s business. Never tiring. Even enjoying the act of lifting over and over again. I would set beers on the bumper of my pickup truck. Shoveling, like anything else, went hand-in-hand with drinking.

Today, older and weaker, I shiver at the thought of having to shovel again. I hope it doesn’t snow anymore this year. Not that I shoveled all that much, anyway. Brooke did most of that. I had the easy job—snowblowing.

As always, we divide and conquer. She doesn’t want to mess around with gasoline, choking, priming, and an extension cord, a clogged chute, deflated tires, and broken shear pins. But I don’t mind it. Even with all its peccadillos, the old Huskee still makes quick work of deep snow, and most of the time, the heavy stuff.

After 15 years, I have come to know that machine pretty well. Top off the gas every third use. Twelve pumps of air per tire each outing. Place it fifteen paces away from the outdoor electrical outlet so the extension cord doesn’t hang in the snow. Push the primer eight times. Adjust the choke. Hold the start button three seconds. Move the throttle closer to the bunny than the turtle, unplug from the outlet, and we’re off.

Once we’re at it, there’s no stopping us.

Except for the slushy mounds that city snowplows layer at the end of our driveway.

It’s been a couple of years since I had to replace a shear pin because I have learned our limits. And so, after Brooke has cleared the main sidewalk to the house, the front and back steps and porches, we meet at the end of the driveway to tackle the big mess. Each of us with a shovel in hand.

~ KJ
a slow start to the morning

March 22nd, 2023

The waves. They are back. Not that they were ever really gone. I heard them this morning while standing on the porch waiting for the dogs to stretch, tinkle, and dump. It was a pleasant surprise. So simple. Big water against the shoreline blocks away. The waves took me out of my head—a dangerous and vulnerable place early in the morning—and got me pointed in the right direction.

There is only so much I can do. Is that the truth? Or is that what we tell ourselves to keep comfortable? Seems like it would be easy now to settle into the big fade. Ride out whatever comes my way. Make sure family is happy. Yearn for warmer days. Consider the slower pace that can come with an empty nest. Work away time as clock hands keep turning. Saving for rainy days, or snowy days, or sun.

But the kids are not grown enough to try this world on their own. I’m glad for that. I’d like them here for as long as they’ll have us. And even though my wife and I have plans—travel, hike, read, paint, and write—we know that plans are just words unless they’re put into action. It’s fun to make them, exciting to see them come to fruition, and there is great satisfaction in seeing them through. But is there anything better than having plans? Ideas and hopes. Dreams. A little something to talk about on our walks, at dinner, just before we set ourselves off to sleep.

I’m listening to the sound of waves now. Not the mighty Lake Huron, but ocean waves rushing onto a sandy beach. I do this sometimes because it’s soothing. I bring up YouTube, put on headphones, and let my spirit vacation while the body and brain work. Doing what needs to be done to continue this coming and going, earning and consuming. Waking earlier and earlier each day, eager to get started because I believe that more opportunities are revealed the longer I keep at it. Some mornings start slower than others. I get sidetracked with water, thoughts like waves, but that’s okay.

Here’s to another day of heading in the right direction.

~ KJ
at least for now

March 21st, 2023

March 21, 2023 – 6:38 pm

Last night, at about eight, I had showered, put on PJs and was standing at the top of the staircase. I looked down the hallway toward the L room. I felt a pull to go there. Here, where I am this morning. So that I could write. There was a slight moment of inspiration. The urge. But it was eight. I got lazy. Rather than spend an hour writing—maybe two—I sat on the recliner and watched Saved by the Barn with my wife and kid. Heartwarming show, and it was good to be there with them, coming down from the day, but this morning I’m packed full of whatever it is that creeps in when I don’t write. The type of feeling that makes me mad at the traffic passing by. Silliness, I know. And it’s a punishment, no doubt—this dip in happiness and rise in anxiety—because I’m not doing what I’m supposed to.

I don’t have to publish and earn a living by writing. In fact, I like writing whatever I want whenever I want. But when you don’t rely on an activity, when it isn’t a necessity, that activity can easily be set aside. I know how important it is that I write. That I do it regularly. I’ve had this conversation with myself for years. If I stop equating writing to success and success to writing—if I stop seeing writing as something to show and share rather than something to do and feel—then I will be my best, create the most engaging content, and be happiest.

Writing helps my reasoning. It’s a way to filter out the awfulness. The garbage. It’s also a way to bring to the surface all the beauty that goes unnoticed. Not all of it. Strike that. But beauty, anyway. Little bits and large, sweeping scenes. But I prefer the little bits. Snippets. Letters, lines, paragraphs, short stories. I don’t know that I will write a novel because I don’t have the patience. The only way I can do it is by telling several short stories within the larger story. I’ve been trying that with DEVOTION for years now, but it’s slow going. I’ve got myself stretched in so many directions that the book has taken a backseat. By choice. I’ll pick away at it. Come to it when I feel I should be in it. Otherwise, it is forced. Phony. Work.

Speaking of…it’s nearly seven. I’m already feeling late and behind, so I best be rolling on out into that morning traffic with everyone else that chooses to do something other than what they are meant to do. At least for now.

~ KJ
March 8, 2022 – 6:25 am

March 8th, 2023

Start early. Get a look at that sky. The stars fuzzier today than they were yesterday. The cold bites deeper. Bones and joints don’t get along as well as they used to. But I stand and wait for the dogs to do their business, one after another. I breathe the morning air, listening to the factory do what it’s always done–provide jobs, sustain families, allow men to piss away paychecks on booze and toys–while it pollutes. The air, sky, water. But that’s how it goes. It is what it is. Insert whatever flip, cliche saying you like. Life just goes on.

We’re all doing this–growing older, feeling the change in mind and body–and I can see why it’s harder on some than others. Essentially, you’re the same kid you’ve always been. The core, I don’t know that it ever changes. And so, it can be hard getting on with the days, doing the simple acts. Not only because they’re more physically demanding, but because I have to change my line of thought. Prioritize. Change the path to endure.

I tend to get too deep early like this. The kids are up. My wife is up. The dogs, they’ve settled into after dog chow mode, and are snoozing. I kinda feel like I’d like to do that too, but I know that laying around with my thoughts isn’t healthy. Days like this it’s important to shake off whatever it is that’s creeping in. The morning traffic–lots of people going places they will regret or hate remembering. The hum of industry–facilitating growth and destruction. The mourning dove perched upon the telephone wire–cooing away the realities of survival, calling out to all that will listen.

~ 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
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
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
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
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