Man Note: Love's Cowardice

Thanks for the quote, Bob Marley!!!

I'm a monster.

My love makes me a monster.

My use of love for my own purposes makes me a monster.

This post is going to be hard for me, but it is one that I must finish.  Before I begin, let me emphatically state that this post is about me and my capacity for love, and NOT the objects of my love.  This is an introspection and not an accusation.  In my recent self-evaluation, I've been looking at my behaviors and trying to find things I can improve on, ways of getting out of my own way.

In evaluating myself, I came to a realization about my roles, which is largely the reason I started this blog.

I am a husband and a father.  These are two of the biggest roles I have ever taken on in my life, but I have been abusing my roles.  It is a two-fold abuse.  I have been abusing myself in my roles and I have been abusing my loved ones.  I use the word abuse because it is accurate, it conveys what it is I mean to say, but it makes me wildly uncomfortable.

I have willingly chosen my roles, but lately I have been using my roles as a way of excusing myself from my life as opposed to a way of enriching my life.  I have put the anchor of "responsibility" so heavily around my neck that I have had very little room for anything else.  Instead of seeing my marriage and my child as the blessings that they are, I have used them as a downer, an excuse for not living up to my potential.  I have shouldered myself with the burden of doing all things for them.

What is funny about this, is that I have probably been at my least helpful during this phase.  I have been surly, combative, and depressed.  I have not engaged in my normal activities with the family.  I have stayed away instead of joining them in activities.  I have buried myself in work and called it "working for my family" when it has been doing anything but "working for my family."

This quote is for my family.  They don't deserve my disrespect.

I have been burdening myself with an over-proportioned sense of responsibility.  The sun and the moon do not rise and fall because of me.  I am not responsible for all things.  I can do what I can do, and that's about it.  I have been abusing myself with my inflated sense of responsibility and its been crippling.

I mentioned the flip side of this inflated sense of responsibility earlier.  I've been surly, combative, and depressed.  The depression has caused me to want to place blame.  I've been silently blaming my family for my actions, and the sheer injustice of this does not escape me.  It is so unfair to them that I have been projecting my sour feelings on to them.  Most of the time, they don't have any idea as to why I am so surly.  This realization has been one of the hardest for me to deal with.  The thought of causing my loved ones pain, and all because I've been struggling with my self is horrifying to me.

But this isn't about making myself feel bad for past sins, it is about moving past this depressed phase and getting my feet underneath me.

So here's where I stand on this: I've been a coward.  I've used my love as a way of avoiding risk, of avoiding myself, and I vow to stop.  I vow to use my love relationships as a way of filling my cup instead of capping it.  I vow to treat my loved ones in the way they deserve to be treated.  I vow to treat myself the way I deserve to be treated.

And I vow to take a pin to my inflated sense of responsibility when it gets out of control.

It's going to be hard work, but I want this.  I want it a lot.  I deserve it, and my family deserves it.

For now, I simply ask their forgiveness.  And patience as I work through this.

Another piece of wisdom from Gandhi.

Father Notes: Patience

It's been a little under two years since my daughter asked to try to ride a bike.  Lately, she has witnessed more and more of her friends getting proficient at riding, and I think it finally piqued her curiosity enough to give it another go.

My wife told me, "You better put those training wheels back on for a minute.  It's been a long time."  So, I listened as my wife is often smarter than I am about these things.  I tend to be more of a "full speed ahead" type when it comes to teaching my daughter things.  So, I sat on the floor of the garage and I reattached the training wheels to my daughter's now undersized bike.  We took it for a spin down the road and back, but she kept saying she was scared, that the rattle of the training wheels was unnerving her.

So I went back to the garage and set about undoing the training wheels from the tiny bike.  I was worried that this would be another excuse, another false start toward getting her to do something I REALLY want her to be able to do.  I could feel myself already starting to push, to get short and sharp in my tone.  I wanted her to do this.

With the training wheels off the bike, I set off down the driveway where my daughter sat on the curb looking nervous.  I stood there with the two-wheeler and looked down at her.  "What's going on?"  I asked.

"I'm scared."

"I know you are, honey." I said. "I don't expect you to not be scared.  It's what we do with our fear that is important.  Someone once said, and I can't remember who, 'Courage isn't the absence of fear.  It is moving ahead anyway, even though you are afraid.'" (Sorry, Nelson Mandela, for the horrible misquote).

"Okay," came her soft reply.  "But you won't let go, right?"

"Right," I said.  I worried a little about this because most parents realize that there comes a point where this is going to be a lie.  If she starts doing it on her own, I will let go.  I will let her take off on her own, even if that means she crashes a couple of feet from my open hand.

Shea did great though.  She got back on the bike, and within 50 or so feet, I wasn't holding the bike anymore.  My hand was resting against her at the back of the seat, but my fingers were not clenched there.  I was providing no guidance, no direction with it.  I simply rested my hand at her back and watched her go.

For anyone who has gone through this moment as a parent, you'll understand the joy of it, the upswelling of pride as you see your child physically mastering a new skill.  Shea rode "unassisted" for a couple of seconds each time before I clenched back down and kept her from falling off sideways, but I could see her gaining more encouragement.

Finally, she got on the bike, pushed off, started pedaling, and I let go.  I let go, let go.  I allowed my hand to fall to my side.  Shea rode for about 10-15 seconds before putting her feet down and bringing herself to an awkward stop.

She turned to look at me about 10 feet behind her with my hands in the air and a smile on my face.  Then, we back slid.  I praised her for doing it all by herself, but when we set off to try again, she did worse and worse.  She kept stopping short, or she stopped immediately after my hand pulled away.  It was fear making its move again.  She knew in her mind that she could do it, but the fear was holding her back from really taking off.

When we got back to the house, she was ready to quit.  She didn't want to ride on our street any more.  Then, and this is the moment that really makes me proud, she asked if we could go to the park.  "There aren't as many hills there," she said.

"Done," I said.  "Let's get mommy."

So we gathered Tracy and made our way to the park where there is a large, newly paved parking lot.  It is wide, mostly flat, and open.  She had originally wanted to ride the bike paths around the park, but when I told her she could try riding in the parking lot, she looked excited.  There was nothing really in her way, nothing to crash into, no real traffic coming along, and we started again.

As soon as we got her on the bike and pushing off, she took to it.  She didn't go far, she didn't go long, but she did it all on her own.  She even fell once, scraping her hand and foot a little bit, but she got back on and did it again.

As I sit here now reflecting on what happened today, I can't help but realize how patient I am going to have to be in the coming years.  I am going to have to let her find her own way, her own time, for when she is ready for things.  I will always want things for my daughter's life.  I will always hope she acquires this skill or that talent, but I am going to have to let go of driving her.  I'm going to have to let go of my own time frame for things because the last time I tried to teach her to ride a bike two years ago, we both went home disappointed, and she could probably read that on me.

The other thing that I remembered today is that anything worth having is worth trying for, worth practicing, worth coming back to, even after a long absence, and so I knew I would write today.  If I am going to teach my daughter about acting in the face of fear, then I need to lead by example.

Father Notes: Play Time

I've been feeling a bit disconnected from Shea lately, like I've been working too much and not having enough unstructured time with her.  Unstructured time is the cornerstone of our relationship.  With so much always going on with the family, I've always taken it upon myself to make sure to spend those aimless afternoons with her without an agenda.  Tonight, I found some of that time and I can't even explain how much I missed it.

After I picked Shea up from my mother's house, we came home to find only the dog waiting for us.  We'd beaten Tracy home.  As we came into the house, I asked Shea if she wanted to change out of her school clothes and get into something more comfortable.  She looked a bit sweaty.  She asked if I wanted to come upstairs and make sure she picked out something that was "appropriate" (her words).  She instantly pulled out a purple sundress, and I said, "Why not?"

After she changed her clothes, she asked if she could show me something.  I agreed and she led me out to the backyard.  On the way out the door, I grabbed my wife's camera on a whim.  When we got outside, Shea stood on the tiny paved path between the lower yard and upper yard and simply gestured at the strawberry plants around her.

She wound her way amongst the bushes, careful to not step on any of the ripened, or unripened fruit, until she had collected a good handful.  She offered me up a couple of strawberries like they were the greatest candied confection one could find. Which is kind of true, as strawberries from one's own yard, warm from a late Spring day, dance along the tongue like few things can.

After our quick after school snack.  Shea led me on a walk around the yard, warning me to watch out for dog poop as we walked.  We simply strolled around the yard, looking at the spot where the old play structure used to be.  We talked about maybe setting up garden boxes in its place, and Shea wanted to make sure she would have some say as to what we planted.

Shea then asked me if I wanted to play a game.  Here are the rules as I understand them:

1. I stand in a patch of dandelions while she stands in a patch of dandelions across from me.
2. When she says go, I am supposed to reach her dandelion patch while simultaneously preventing her from reaching mine.  We are on opposing teams.
3. I can't tag her right after she tags me, although the tag element and what it meant to be "it" still eludes me.

This game basically involved the two of us running past each other and standing in the opposing teams dandelions for about 10 minutes.  Somehow she won, and then I attacked her and the whole thing devolved into a tickle fight.  Afterwards, she shoved flowers into her toes and presented them to me as flower flip-flops.

Once she regained her wits and grew bored of the flower flip-flops, she spied a hula hoop left forgotten on the grass from a couple of days previous.  She lit up with an idea.  "Watch me, daddy," she cried from the middle of the lawn.

She spun that hula hoop better than I remembered.  She actually kept the thing afloat for a couple of seconds, which is a grand improvement from where she began.  After she got tired of the hula hoop around the waist, it was around the arm.  When she got tired of trying to swing it around her arm?  We concocted a game to see how many ways we could throw the hula hoop to each other from across the lawn.  She rolled it.

Threw it overhand.

Tossed it like a frisbee (not a resounding success).

Two-handed-over-the-head-axe-toss.  Look at the intensity of the preparation!  This was serious business, people.

At this point, I've lost many people to the overly sentimental musings of a father, but there is a point to all of this.  The point is this.  We had an amazing evening with Shea that night.  She came inside, did all of her chores, ate her dinner, obeyed everything we said, and was in a good mood the entire time.

Our children crave our attention and our time, and most of the parents I know give it to them, but we don't always do it in the free-associating, agenda-free format that kids prefer.  Shea loved careening from one activity to another to another with no sense of a plan.  She wanted to be free of restriction.  She wanted her mind to dance and play from one pleasurable moment to the next without me saying, "Five more minutes," or, "You can play with that after you do this, that, and the other."

The whole endeavor probably took 30 minutes, an instant, an eye blink, a mere pittance of time, but it made all the difference.  I could keep this blog post focused on Shea and how it did great things for her behavior and temperament, but I think the real winner in this situation was me.  The two of us played in the grass together, barefoot.  We ate sun-kissed strawberries and played a game that had almost no rules and no real objective.  Then, we played catch back and forth with a hula hoop.  All of those things, every one, was like an aloe to my often stress-burned heart.  I came inside after playing with Shea, kissed my wife, made a fresh dinner by her side, had a snuggle before Shea went to bed, and simply found myself connecting with my wife.  Talking, at ease, and decompressed from the day.  Play time is important.  Not just for Shea, but for Tracy and I too.  I got a dose today, and I think I'm already jonesing for more.

Thanks, Shea.  You did good, girl.

Personal Notes: Pulling Threads

Image Source

The illustration above evokes a project I'm working on right now.  It is an illustration of an exercise to limber up the fingers for a pianist, but it speaks to what I'm working on in interesting ways.  Much in the same way a pianist must exercise in order to better their craft, I must "limber up" if I am to improve in my art as well.  My hands are an instrument of my art, dancing over the keyboard in an attempt at making music of another sort, and so I was drawn to this illustration.

I've been "pulling threads" over the last couple of days.  I've had an interesting email exchange with my aunt who dropped a picture on me that I wasn't prepared for.  It's called to the surface a set of questions, a mindfulness, I wasn't prepared for in terms of how I think about myself.  It is a simple picture, a picture of my grandfather, which lead me to exchange additional emails with my aunt, and then my father.  The picture opened a door to a subject I had never considered, like the muse dropping inspiration on the unwitting artist.

My grandfather and his first wife

This is the picture that started this process.  It led to other pictures and other questions.  I debated creating a blog post about the subject, but I'm realizing that the material this picture opened for me is more of a long form essay, something that needs to be developed in the longer, more formal rough draft, revision, new draft, revision process that is typical of the work I try to publish in literary magazines and other venues.

Sometimes the past feels like a closed book to us, chapters that are completed and spent.  Other times, the past comes alive for us, a place to be explored, a darkened room in which we stumble around and grope at the walls for a switch that will light the darkness.  This picture feels like the latter, or a doorway to the latter.

I'm excited to explore the subject in detail.  One never knows where inspiration is going to strike, but we must all remain open to it.

Family Notes: Wayne Oliver

Today finds me making another post to commemorate someone lost within my community.  My Uncle Wayne passed away suddenly this week.  It's stunned me into silence over the last couple of days.

I'm sorry if my blog is beginning to feel like a memorial page, but I process grief through words. Sometimes, it's all I have. When I'm face to face with people, I don't know what to say or how to act, but, somehow, when I sit in front of a computer screen and let my fingers dance across the keys, I find a way to say something. There's a lot to say about my uncle, too much to say here, but I wanted to capture a couple of things about him that are important to me personally.

My uncle Wayne, or Wayne O, was a formidable man. He was a successful businessman, a community presence in both local organizations and government, he was a baseball father figure to more people than I can possible comprehend, and he was a loving uncle, father and husband. These are his résumé bullet points, the place we begin when we discuss a life, but there are details underneath these facts that make them poignant, as there are with any life.

How do you sum up a man like Wayne?

You don't.  There are too many aspects about him that need attention, that deserve time and words, but I don't have the energy to do it all.  The one thing I can say about Wayne is that I love him and I respect him.  The reason for this is because Wayne never asked me for either of those things.  Many people, once they achieve success, power, or notoriety, can fall victim to their own press, to their own accolades.  This wasn't true of my uncle.  In sports, they call it showboating.  Wayne was not a showboater.  He was the consummate workhorse when it came to almost every aspect of his life.  He didn't rest on his laurels, he didn't rely on his talents, but, instead, he worked for the things he had and he didn't ask a single other person to recognize him for it.

Knute Rockne is quoted as having said, "One man practicing sportsmanship is far better than 50 preaching it." I can't think of anyone in my life who embodied this more than my uncle.  He lived to be a good sportsman.  In fact, my brother just told me the other day that Wayne was the only coach who ever benched him for a bad attitude.  It was during a baseball game and he benched him defensively in the middle of an inning.  Anyone who has ever played baseball knows how big a deal that is.  Wayne couldn't tolerate bad sportsmanship.  And, like Knute Rockne indicated, his life served as an example to the rest of us.  We'll miss you, Wayne.  We'll miss your example.  We'll miss your humor, but we'll never let go of your example.  You've coached us well.