Up early these days. With the dog, the cats. The stars up in black sky.
This morning, I was ready for snow. Crept downstairs so as not to wake my warm, sleeping family, then stopped at our front door. The house across the street. A Christmas tree in the top right window year-round. Our American peace flag flapping in wind. The neighborhood still. And I wanted a foot-deep blanket of white.
If COVID continues, if it ramps up and we’re forced into lockdown, I hope the snow comes and comes and comes, and does not stop until everything is better. I want us to be inside together for so long that we tire of electronics. Go back to books, board games, and baking. I want to have to shovel a path to the truck. To need 4-LO. To travel treacherous roads to stores that are having a hard time staying stocked and that have cut hours of operation.
I want to bring home non-perishables and steaks. Grill in snowfall. Make snowmen. Buy snowshoes and give that a try.
I’m ready for winter. Perpetual Christmas. A Norman Rockwell life. Away from reality. Tucked in sugar plum dreams. Warmed by a crackling fireplace.
It’s nice to be awake like this, again. Especially with fresh thoughts, the pets, the stars, so early in the morning.
Early Sunday morning. A car stops on State Street because a flock of geese crosses the road. They are doing what they’ve been doing for millions of years. Moving from Point A to Point B. They’ve experienced disease, drought, famine, and legitimate predators—not the weekend gun-jockeys that pop them off in parks during three-day hunts sanctioned by the city—and they have survived. But this driver doesn’t give a shit. Agitated, they honk their horn.
They’ve got someplace important to be.
McDonald’s for breakfast.
The Marathon station for smokes.
Their weekly dose of righteousness.
When the oncoming lane clears, the driver swerves over the center line and races down the street.
I get it. We have lives to live. Roles to fulfill and expectations to meet. There’s pressure, real or not, that we feel on a daily basis. And when we don’t address it, it builds. And it can get ugly. We get irritated. We put up walls. Or worse yet, we reach out to other frustrated fucks and commiserate. Strengthening negativity and feeding the ignorance that grows as a result of blindly following like-mindedness.
Pick your party.
Your flavor.
Your team.
We all want to be heard. But nobody wants to listen.
Food affects mood. So does sleep. Not doing what we want, or being what we’re meant to be. That kills us too.
But all of us are dying.
The sun’s gonna eat us alive in 6.5 billion years. Or maybe tonight, in dreams. I suppose that’s when Jesus will walk again. Or ride in on a Brontosaurus. He and Donald Trump. Maybe Jane Fonda. Twisted Uncle Ted. Drunken sister, Sarah. And J.J. from Good Times. I hope to meet Eddie Vedder then. He and Hemingway drinking wine. Vedder calling Papa a misogynist. Papa standing up, ready to fight, when Gandhi steps in.
“Be the change that you wish to see in the world.”
We’ll all come together again. Just wait and see. After all, that’s what we do.
We wait.
For another day. Another moment. Another chance. Because they keep coming. We put off the changes, don’t take advantage of opportunities, and don’t live up to our potential because we’re under the impression that there’ll be another day.
And if not, that’s okay. We’ve done what we were supposed to do. It was fate. It’s been predetermined. Even if we fight, pushing headfirst into battle, that’s the way it was meant to be.
So say we the sheep. Not of the United States, China, The Bahamas, or whatever boundary we choose to define ourselves. But of the world.
Whatever happened to raging against machines, warm-bodied love in the morning, and skipping stones to see how many times an object can defy gravity?
Why don’t we run like we did when we were kids? Barefoot through the grass, sun blessing us with light and heat and freckles, fast and free into days without end.
Bodies in motion staying in motion at constant velocity with no concern for acts made by external forces.
We are citizens of the Universe. Feeling like we’ve been
here before.
Energy waves. Vibration. Attracting and repelling other
energy.
It’s difficult to remain connected—centered, but even more challenging
to rediscover connection once it’s been lost because this existence requires a
measured amount of disconnect to function.
The great trick is learning how to disconnect without
becoming desensitized. To take that leap of faith that propels you beyond what
you know.
Maybe it’s a new job.
Taking a different route to work.
Or forcing yourself into an uncomfortable situation.
Whatever it is, you’re never sure in the moment, but recognize
it once it has passed because you feel regret for not letting go and allowing
the Universe to take control.
Why are we so afraid of giving up?
So content with comfort?
Stuck in this perpetual return. Die. Come back. Die. Come
back. We die again and again and again. So tied to the fears of this physical
world that we’re unable to break free and simply be.
And so, we are left with fleeting instances of déjà vu.
We’ve got the cold wrapping up all around us. It’s time for long johns, parkas, and insulated boots. Trekking through snow and slush. Penguin-stepping over ice. Or dodging puddles. It is Michigan, after all. Twenty-seven degrees right now at 7:32 pm but it could be 45 by tomorrow morning. Even with all the gadgetry, computer models, and confident weathermen and women, we never know what we’re gonna get. We can predict and assume, extrapolate and forecast all we want, but the truth is we just don’t know. Try as we might to make sense of this world, there are factors—magic stuff, I like to think—beyond our reach, our science, and our beliefs. But that’s just me. Forty-five years old and realizing more and more each day how little I understand and know.
You will make many mistakes. Some of them inexplicable even though you are a grown man with a career, car payments, a mortgage or three, and husband and daddy duties. You’ll say mean things to your kids. Kick the cat out of the way. Raise your voice to your wife. You’ll wake up drunk in places you don’t belong. And maybe even have a run-in with the law. Or God.
You’ll be a shit at least once or a dozen times in your life and you will know how awful you are when you see tears from those that you love. And no matter how right you believe you are, you’re wrong.
You’ll see this most clearly just before bed when you thumb wrestle your 10-year old son and let him win. Again. He is all smiles and feeling strong, which is exactly what he’ll need as he moves along and learns that a man should strive in his life to make people happy. To help. Sacrifice. And save. No matter what.
But it’s harder than it seems. Much, much harder. And trying to be a good man is one of the loneliest things you’ll ever do because nobody can ever really teach you.
To admit when you’re wrong.
Set aside your pride.
And apologize.
These are the great lessons we learn when we stick to our commitments. Embrace forgiveness. And honor our vows.
I heard a voice tonight. The kids were in pajamas. We had just said our family prayer and were playing tic, tac, toe, hit me high, hit me low, hit me three times in a row, buddy got hit by a UFO and what I heard was ROCK and so I played rock and I crushed all of their scissors and we walked up the stairs of this big old house and shared hugs and kisses and good solid intentions of seeing one another in the morning.
As I walked downstairs to the box of wine that helps me unwind most nights, I thought about my boy so nervous this morning before his big fourth-grade, year-end race. He was pacing, sticking close to me and SB while his buddies wrestled and threw around a ball and he told us that bubbles were popping in his guts and he wanted to know why it felt like he had to go to the bathroom even though he knew in his heart that he didn’t have to go.
“It’s nerves,” I said.
And he ran away to the bathroom in the school to empty whatever he could that was building inside.
Three minutes later, he was at the starting line, jockeying for position and I heard a voice say, “He’s got it wrapped up. Just watch and enjoy.”
He ran a mile in seven minutes and four seconds and beat out every other kid in his grade. The volunteer parents were impressed. They had been keeping track of the races all day. Our boy was the fourth fastest in school, just seconds behind the studs of fifth grade.
He took the victory in stride. He was humble. He knows that it is only a race and that running doesn’t last forever. That there is much more to come. And none of it can be known until we know it.
“He’s gonna be a star,” a voice said. And there was nothing I could do but believe it.
Poem’s audio below…honey, I even got a little throat clearing in for you at the end.;-)
I don’t post as much as some people do. That’s for good reason. There are too many dummies doing so already. People posting too much shit that is selfish, mean, hurtful, and downright stupid. For instance, I am happy that so-and-so helped a homeless person today, or saved a duck, or paid it forward in some way or the other, but the point of doing good deeds is to simply do them and not draw recognition to oneself. And yet, everyone is look at me. You, S.B., are not like that. Even at our wedding you insisted that all eyes NOT be on you. You just wanted to get married, to be together, and for everyone to have a good time. And that’s why sometimes you’ll catch me just looking at you. I’m amazed.
And then there are the religious geniuses—most of them blinded instead of enlightened—damning people because they are different, spewing evil, nastiness and ignorance. God hates this type of person. This group is going to hell. I follow my husband blindly. I am obedient. His servant. Blah, blah, blah. If they had any inkling of what it’s like to live a good life, they’d be living like you, S.B. You are the definition of kindness. You bring hope. You are the embodiment of strength and independence. And you make me and our kids believe that there are much greater things going on behind the scenes than what we engage on the surface. If people were as selfless and sensible as you are, they’d take more time out of their day to focus on others. The world would be a better place if it followed you.
There are the sickies, always posting how miserable they feel. I saw you give birth to a child, naturally, without shedding a tear. When you are sick, we never know it. You may take an ibuprofen if the pain starts to slow you down. But you’re never asking for attention. Posting about your sniffles or ever mentioning an ache.
There are the titsies—women that apparently can’t refrain from showing their cleavage. Oh, look at the new toaster I got with their boobies all squished together and most likely sharing their best set of duck lips. You, S.B., draw a crowd with your beautiful wide smile, your confidence, and warmth.
And finally, though there are more I could mention, there are the political gurus. We don’t have to go much into that, I suppose. I think most of us should probably follow your politics. Treat people with respect. Help everyone. Act, every day, as if there is an end that’s fast approaching. And that when it’s all said and done every single deed and every word we’ve ever written or spoken—good and bad—will be judged. Maybe not by God, but by everyone we’ve known. And that the tiny ripples of our life make big, big waves.
In summation, Happy Birthday, S.B. I thought I should post this and put it on your page because in the whole scheme of things maybe one person’s love for another will help balance out, and even defeat the shit—all the selfish, mean, hurtful, and downright stupid things—that so many others are putting into this world wide tangled web.
The Crooked Steeple 