Father Abraham

I don't observe weekends. I work in retail so I forfeit many of the quaint luxuries awarded to a typical consumer (like the satisfaction of being right). I describe my schedule as such "every day is a Tuesday." Please don't mistake my words as complaints despite the slightest shroud of sarcasm. I have subscribed to other cycles of life before and I will again. Presently, I am a weekday warrior.
I could view the last two days of my life as meeting a series of obligations. The perfect metaphor is Kafka's The Trial. I offer a summary interpretation, in most ways we choose to enslave ourselves or emancipate ourselves. This can take the form of physical occupation or figurative fetters, the difference between a room and a brain (all comparisons are odious sayeth the zen master!).
My Sunday looked a little like this...Meg and I started to purge our bedroom of stuff to make room for a crib. For me this means deciding which books stay on the shelf and which books go in a box. Oh the poor, poor scholarly man! My wife might protest, and fairly, I started our afternoon on the couch. It's true I spent an hour napping and watching baseball. I'm just a man (for whom the sabbath was made). A snooze and a couple of scoreless innings and I was ready...for a little wine. Swig. Look at all this crap. Swig. Peripheral world out of focus while Utley is up to bat. Ground out. Swig. Move some furniture. Move some boxes. Pull a muscle. Swig.
On to the next thing. We shared a very pleasant evening grilling and eating with friends. Chomp. Swig. Get the boy and so to bed. All week I had been meaning to watch Lincoln. Somehow a leisure activity found its way onto my "to do" list. I would watch Lincoln before I went to bed. The movie opens with a battle scene. Blue or Gray uniforms it is hard to say, they are all muddy, the uniforms and the battle lines. One soldier steps on the face of another while bayonets insert mercilessly into mounds of countrymen. I don't watch war movies. I wasn't expecting Lincoln to open like this. In a flash I was reminded how intimately the Civil War was fought. I was getting context. Mercifully, Spielberg shifts the movie to the pristine floor of the House of Representatives and the debate over the proposed 13th amendment, the abolition of slavery. Here we stay for a majority of the film. Though it can be said living with Mary Todd would not have been any picnic, and many history books have said as much, and Sally Fields (who plays Mary Todd) self-referentially acknowledges the remembered idiosyncrasies of her character with a twist. Her words suggest Mary Todd is a representation of the "normal" mother during the Civil War. I will Ulysses S. Grant her that.
Interestingly, one of the only times Lincoln loses his stuff is when he tells his wife he has afforded their oldest son the permission to fight. They have long grieved the loss of another of their sons and the paternal debate on the White House floor heightens to silent anguish versus writhe display. A. Lincoln offers this sage advice on the freedom within all men and women:

"I must make my decisions, Bob must make his, you yours and bear what we must, hold and carry what we must. What I carry within me - you must allow me to do it, alone, as I must - and you alone Mary, you alone may lighten this burden or render it intolerable as you choose."

There are some things I must carry alone. However, how I suffer my burdens impacts the weight of my wife's. Free to choose shackle or key. Weekday to weekend or sunrise to sunset. It starts within yourself.     
      
    

Archetypos

http://www.artofmanliness.com/2008/05/14/100-must-read-books-the-essential-mans-library/

A fellow bookman shared this list with me the other day. I've never been too concerned with exuding manliness (I can grow a full beard in 156.4 seconds) but I do like a good list of "must read" books. I didn't bother reading the commentary I just soaked in the selections. As far as I can tell the selections include men at war, men surviving nature, and men creating positions of political and social influence. In large part, men seeking to inflict a will upon persons, environments or ideas. I own and cherish many of the titles. My sentiments have little to do with "gender identity." I like a good story about an individual's pursuit for truth.

I was driving my son to preschool the other day and I think I had Onerepublic leading in the mix. Liam wanted me to switch the song to "the one about Jesus dying on the cross." I don't have that song in my vehicle (I don't even know what song he was thinking of), but what I did have in the rotation was B.B. King singing a hymn. I skipped over to this blues rendition of "Take My Hand Precious Lord." Cue the organ. Liam says "I don't like this." I said to give it a second. "What's this song about, Dad?" "Well, it is about holding Jesus's hand and letting him guide you." He asks, "Is this Jesus singing?" I chuckled and told him it was B.B. King like that meant anything to him. "Is this Jesus's language?" My son asks a lot of questions. "No buddy, this is English. Jesus's language was Aramaic." He repeats the word a few times to commit it to memory. Who knows when or how he will use this piece of information but I know he wants to remember for some specific reason. The song ends and I put on "Good Times, Bad Times" by Led Zeppelin. I had to get him a riff off Jimmy's guitar before he headed into school. I always assume everyone needs a little psyching up and to quote the bard Kanye "Every superhero needs his theme music."

So I drop the boy off. Robert Plant echoing in my head "In the days of my youth I was told what it means to be a man. Now I've reached that age I try to do all those things the best I can." Yes, I was deriving insight from a man who donned a unitard with a swoop neck. If you haven't noticed by now I think a lot about being a father. It is one of the responsibilities in life I have taken seriously. What am I teaching him with my words and my actions? He's a fearless kid. I love that about him. I didn't teach him that. It is something I simply get to enjoy. He has an insatiable curiosity. This is something we share only he externalize his curiosities more than I do. So let's get back to his request for the song about Jesus dying on the cross.

All arguments of Jesus's divinity aside, historically, he was an influential guy. A guy who is difficult by any standard or definition of "manliness" to emulate. He didn't fight any wars. He didn't seek any elections. He didn't try to win friends. I'm sure Jon Krakauer could have written a thrilling account of Jesus's 40 days in the wilderness, but any elemental conquest would have missed the point. As I was saying, Jesus is difficult to emulate because he submitted his will. Choose whatever modern day method of execution you like and picture someone who helped people and taught about God saying as his last words "It is perfected." Roll credits. People are going to start throwing popcorn at the screen! Wait, that's how it ends? That's not what happens to the hero!

What just happened? I hope my son continues to ask that question. "Realize, sweet babe, we ain't never gonna part."

Diamonds Are Forever

So where have I been? You may or may not know Major League Baseball finished its first week on Sunday. I don't know how baseball is fairing as America's pastime but for me it is something of instant nostalgia: playing catch with my dad until it is nearly too dark to see the ball, breaking the neighbor's windows, imagining I was a big leaguer knocking one out of the park at backyard whiffle ball home run derby, silently gasping at the electric sting in my hands when the ball hit the end of the bat during an early Spring practice. I really could go on and on.

When I was a boy I grew up watching the last all-star outfield of the Pittsburgh Pirates, Bonilla, Bonds and Van Slyke. Any time I step up to the plate I still bunch my short sleeves up onto my shoulders like Andy (partly because he did it and partly because my dad did it). Baseball is a very superstitious sport and this habit gives me confidence. Coming in and out of the field I never step on the  baseline and I always lead with my left foot. If I were to step on that line you have no idea how poorly I would play. I don't want to give away all my tells but there are more.

I can't say exactly what the magic in baseball is for me. In my conscious mind I spent 1990 to 2009 watching the Pirates so I know it isn't winning (two pennants aside). To boot, from 2009 to 2013 I've watched the Phillies steadily decline from such great heights. Clearly, a winning team is not in the magical brew.

 As if watching a 162 game season wasn't consuming enough, I made the decision to manage a fantasy baseball team this year (only the second time I've done so). Why only the second time? Because I tend to become a little obsessed. Already, one week in, last night it was "It's either me or baseball!" from the wife. Do I have to answer that right now? Can't you smell the grass? Where is the sky that shade of blue except above a baseball diamond? Statistics are synonymous with baseball and I derive some pleasure from sifting through box scores and searching for the patterns, the flukes, the diamond in the ruff. I'm not a numbers guy so this exception baffles me.

What is it about baseball? Maybe it is the pace of the game (long enough for the sun to set), of the season (April through October brings Spring, Summer and Autumn). The slow pace suits me. I approach most everything with the idea I'll be working at it for a long time. Don't rush me or I'll just walk away.

On top of watching games and farming a fantasy roster, I started reading The Summer of '49. The chronicle of the still classic rivalry between the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees. Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams. Pennant race. It's not enough to live in the present. I can't get enough of this stuff. I stepped out of the car the other evening, head down I walked up the stairs into our apartment. Apparently I had a look on my face, like something was really wrong. My wife asked me what was the matter. "I don't know. Roy gave up a two-run homer in the first. I think that must be it."

I like rooting for the old dog to learn a new trick. Maybe it is the mere mortal's pursuit for perfection, even if it is a fleeting moment. Days and days heaped on hours piled upon hours tweaking mechanics and tearing muscles to better a career that could come down to one swing of the bat, one pitch on the corner of the plate, one scoop or leaping catch.

Maybe it's not the love for a team but the love for a game. To be a fan you have to know the history, the rules, the strategy, the stats, and the superstitions. And you realize 3 hours is hardly a drop in the oceanic timeline of Major League Baseball. I would say I've lost a lot of my life to baseball if I felt it was a loss. If I can't be on the grass, I want to be in the stands, just take me out to the ballgame. I'll have time to stretch later on.    

Braveheart on Ice

I was an athlete. The burning in my quads last night tells me I'm not so much any more. I met my wife and son last night for his first skate on ice...ever. During my drive to the rink I had the nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach I used to get before basketball games, the sinking feeling of organized sport.

I am enormously proud of my son today. He did something last night I know for a fact I would never have done at his age. And to think, it almost wasn't...

When I met my wife and son in the parking lot he was all smiles. He had a brand new black Braun helmet. He was going to be the "guy in the goal who wears the boots." We entered the building and got his nametag. No problem. We walked through the doors to the rink he would be skating on. It was cold outside, but it was colder still near that enormous sheet of ice. I played sports on hardwood, asphalt, dirt and grass. Except for the occasional, seasonal, recreational skate I've never really spent much time on ice. Lake Erie hardened my bones for the element but I never played hockey. My son stepped up onto one of the benches and looked through the glass. He says "I just want to watch." Pretty soon he was a heap beside a pillar in the corner of the building. A concerned mom heading for the door asked me, "Is he yours?" No. I just generally corner weeping children in crowded places. All I said was "Yes." I got down on a knee. All right Dad, Go! He cowered and inched away from me as if he'd been in isolation. Several questions and speeches later we were heading out the door. I remember getting darn near perfect grades in Oral Communications so it had nothing to do with my oratory I swear.  

We buckled him into the seat of my wife's car. Wife's orders, I walked back into the building to see if we could get a refund. I stood in line. I wasn't the least bit upset. I figured at the very least I could get the money transferred and I could get some lessons. I was trying to do the same thing with ice that you're supposed to do with lemons. Yes, I have strong desire to learn how to do a hockey stop! Why? Because how cool is that! Still standing in line I'm trying to not hang my head too doggedly. It had nothing to do with my son changing his mind. I'm just an awkward person sometimes and I was going over the script in my mind. I was next with one last person behind me. I turned around and told the guy to go ahead in front of me. I had "kind of an extended question." I stepped back and who steps in the door? None other than Liii---aaaaaa----mmmm King! My wife just shrugged her shoulders with a smile.

He was ready. He was ready to try. "Sir, can I help you?" "Oh, could I get on the ice with my son? At least for today?" "Yeah, sure, no problem." We laced up our skates and headed to our instruction area. Liam looked a little like a giraffe that has just been born, but soon we had walked half way around the rink and his steps grew surer. Those of you who read yesterday's post will be as heartened as I was when the instructor says "Okay, the first thing we are going to do is learn how to fall." Brilliant! And, boy, were the kids good at it. "The second thing we are going to learn is how to get back up." Kids not so good at it, at least not at first. Liam was falling and smiling (and eating the shavings). By the end of the instruction time he was standing back up on ice all on his own. He was taking steps on ice and moving forward without falling. At the very end there was time for free skate. The Mites on Ice are one of my favorite things about being at a Flyers game so this was great. They are so stinkin' small and cute and blazing! Liam would not leave the ice. He was one of the last kids off. He wore his helmet the rest of the night and I had to pry it off his head before he went to school today. He wanted to go back tonight. Forget tonight. He wanted to go back this morning. I told his teacher "He had his first skating lesson so he might mention something about hockey." My son hears everything. He says "At first I was a little bit scared, but then I grew brave." I kissed his head and walked out the door. My son had taught me something about walking through doors. It's okay to be a little bit scared at first because then you grow brave just by turning around.

Hope and Fear Go With It

My son fell at the playground a couple of days ago. I wasn't there. According to my wife he flopped from a height just about her head, so about five feet. She turned her gaze for a split second to stank-eye some twelve or thirteen year-old kids (who according to wife should have been at work). I have been there before. I always want to catch him. At times I have and other times I haven't. Kids just fall waaay too much to catch them all the time, that's my defense because I have stellar reflexes, Cullen reflexes. In any case, my son gets in the car just a little bit shaken and says to his mother "I'm sorry you didn't catch me." He's too young to be sarcastic so this was a sincere apology. My wife, understandably, lost it. What a little gentleman. Maybe he'll grow up to be like his father and apologize when someone steps on his foot. I think my son has a big heart. Whenever he disobeys or misbehaves I try to correct him or discipline him appropriately. Regardless, I always say to my wife he has a big heart and I know he knows he's loved. "I'm sorry you didn't catch me." At age four he's already making a distinction between physical and emotional pain. What a gracious attitude. My wife responded like any good mom would and got the boy some ice cream.

When I was a wee tot, I am told, I would always walk with my hands in my pockets. And...I used to fall a lot. You can laugh. I made no effort to catch myself. More to the point, I was born on a Sunday, a day of rest (not so for my mother that day). My point is I like to take it easy to this day. I like to lean and loaf and invite my soul. Don't get me wrong I loved and still love to play. I remember a particular fall I had at the playground. I was at the top of the slide and I waved to my mom and tipped over the side. I bloodied my nose and I have a deviated septum to this day. I don't know if I said anything that particular day other than "aaaahhhh" but I don't hold any grudges against gravity or my mom. We fall. We get back up.

I choose today to write about this because my son is starting something new this evening and he's going to fall a lot. He's learning how to skate, yes, on ice. Is he afraid to fall? Sure. Is my heart already in my throat? Sure. I'm not going to be out there to catch him. So why would I subject myself to this emotional torture? I think he's going to learn how to fall with grace. This is sort of the nature of gravity and ice, you have no choice but to go with it. He will have to learn how to go with it. Watch an NHL game. These athletes know how to fall and how to get back up. They know how to use momentum to spin out of a check or absorb a check. They know when to put their stick on the puck and when to let it glide. They are in their element. And there is a deeper lesson in this.

The Avett Brothers have a song, "The Once and Future Carpenter," with an apt chorus related to this topic:

Forever I will move like the world that turns beneath me
And when I lose my direction I'll look up to the sky
And when the black cloak drags upon the ground
I'll be ready to surrender, and remember
Well we're all in this together
If I live the life I'm given, I wont be scared to die

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihf9A9g6pck

We can't live in fear of change or of a falling. Nor can I deny my son a chance to live. I just hope he knows he can always look in my direction and remember we're in this together.

   

Peace

I don't see all the people I love nearly...remotely, as much as I would like to (this net is more vast than you can imagine so count yourself if you have bothered to read this), so I am starting this blog. If in all other respects I am just contributing to the white noise, then so be it. My purpose is simply to share my thoughts, emotions, opinions and goings-on in my life so those who don't see me as often as they would like can still know on any given day wh-what's going on. And, I will have the chance to do something I enjoy most of all, I will have a chance to encourage you.  

I haven't settled on a format yet. I like a good theme. At present, I am content with rambling.

Now, for a topic...

Let's start small with peace. I close most every message I write with the word "peace." In my head, the image is the hippie peace sign. Those of you who know me best know I subscribe to the merely superficial tenants of the sixties Hippie movement, actions and postures most associated with the word "frolic" and the lyrics of "Going to California" by Led Zeppelin. The life of the Shire appeals to me (lack of shoes and green grass most of all). The movement hasn't moved for a while so I don't feel any real need to catalogue the ideas with which I do and don't agree. If anything, I have and will always have a scholarly curiosity and distance with this particular socio-cultural American effort whose "pacifism" engaged politics through music and poetry. I'm not going to pretend I know what Lennon meant when he wrote "No one I think is in my tree" and I read a lot of existentialist literature! I'm not even going to pretend he knew what he meant. However, "Strawberry Fields Forever" speaks to me and I don't think you need LSD to know some things seem more real in one moment and some things feel so foreign in others. We have these eyes we are constantly opening and closing and little of the adjustment needs to involve seeing. Close your eyes. You're still there.

George Harrison was an avid gardener and deeply invested in Eastern philosophy. His first solo album was titled "All Things Must Pass" and he is pictured sitting in his garden surrounded by garden gnomes. In one sense, I agree with the title's sentiment. He said this:

“Sometimes I feel like I’m actually on the wrong planet. It’s great when I’m in my garden, but the minute I go out the gate I think, ‘What the hell am I doing here?”

I wonder what felt most wrong to him. What about his garden gave him peace? Most days, in between TV shows, we have to put on shoes and walk outside the gate and ask ourselves "What am I doing here?" Robert Frost in his poem "Mending Wall" wrote "Something there is that doesn't love a wall." If you haven't read the poem, the story consists of two farmers who replace stones in a wall which separates their orchards. They don't how the stones have fallen, they just do. Each Spring, they simply and dutifully go about "mending" the wall. The one farmer insists there is wisdom in a saying "good fences make good neighbors." The narrator, the other farmer, is more questioning of their behavior. And when I say "peace," I think what I mean is don't pick the stone up and don't put it back. See if you can move the gate a few inches by letting it roll. Maybe, good meadows make good neighbors.