I think writing is kind of an affliction. I am now on my way home to Kauai, after traveling to NJ to visit with family. Both ways involved two planes, each ride around five hours or so. On the first leg of the trip to the mainland, I spent the time on that plane just thinking about the visit and wasn’t even tempted to watch one of several thousand movies being offered, viewed on a small screen about six inches from my nose. On the second leg of the in-flight marathon, I decided to pull out the computer from under my feet and write.
The thing about this affliction, makes me somehow feel obligated to write, as if it is expected of me, but the question is by whom, or is it who? The truth is I am not read by very many people, so it’s not like I have minions of hungry readers, waiting breathlessly for the next installment in The Life Of Larry. I confess to having this need to bring my inside out and I swear I don’t know why. I have nothing earth shattering to share, nor do I have some twisted sense of self-importance, at least I hope not.
Now, on my way home, I am thinking about family, but I can’t write about them, because that’s not what I do. Well, I can write about my own experience, using it as a mirror, exposing myself and leaving everyone else alone.
As a kid, everything and everyone was big in my life. In the absence of the intellectual tools needed to understand what was going on around me, I was like an emotional weather vane, pushed and pulled from the outside, dramatically affected by raw feelings. It’s life being branded on your butt like a calf, pushed out of the corral into an ever increasing pasture. I held onto stuff, often way longer than I should have, because that early shit tattoos your heart.
Things happened to me that I had nothing to do with. In my writing, I have frequently brought up the death of my father when I was only nine. It was a harsh kind of divorce, because losing a parent, anyway you lose a parent, is about the sanctity of the home being shattered. I can understand the devastation my own children felt, when they experienced the divorce of their parents.
I was marked by my loss and I carried it with me as a burden for many years. I had this idea of creating a perfect home, thinking it might heal the void I grew up with. When my marriage came apart, I knew that I passed on my hurt to my children and it was crushing. I became yet another imperfect parent, not knowing at the time, that one way or another, we parents are all imperfect. No matter what you do, those little, two-legged, emotional weather vanes are always going to find some level of dissatisfaction with something you’ve done.
Parents grow up and so do their children. Hopefully, the children get to mature and accept their own shortcomings, allowing them to see their parents as mere mortals, too. This process definitely takes time and for many, there is no amount of time that will instigate this kind of vision and that is sad. As children, it is kind of normal to feel like a victim, part of the rawness of early being, juxtaposed with a lack of understanding. As an adult, feeling responsibility for who we are is part of growing strong legs to stand on.
As a parent, I have had my own growing up to do. I am not talking about copping a plea and looking for a free ride either. Hopefully, there is a sense of responsibility that you have when your kids are young. They have to hold your hand when they cross the street. They need to eat their meals. You need to take them to the doctor when they don’t feel well. They can’t go out and play if there is homework to do. The first time you realize your kid is not immediately in view and you’re not freaked out is a milestone. You slowly become less important in their lives, too.
As your children grow, other parts of your own life can become important again. Wait a minute, I don’t want this to sound like a rationale for shitty behavior on my part, not forgetting I was a weekend Dad for a bunch of years and then moved a couple of thousand miles away when they were entering their teens.
I admit to being afraid about how I was living my life and afraid of dying in that life. Since then, I have made many choices regarding my life and they could easily be viewed as selfish, a word that is terribly abused and misused. Over the years, I came to admire my mother for the sacrifices she made for her children. She did a phenomenal job as a single mom and her happiness always came second. On her deathbed, I truly understood the sheer majesty of this lady, even as she was leaving, her concern was for her children.
I have been a child, a parent and now a grandparent. I watched my mother age and grew to understand her and appreciate her more as I got older. The same applies as to how I have viewed my own choices over time and how different they were from hers, no better or worse, just different.
Time out: As you know, I am sitting on a plane. A woman one row down started to move and I noticed a white bundle in her lap I really hadn’t seen before. She got up very carefully and that white bundle contained a beautiful little baby, she was handing off to her Mom, directly across from me. I am suddenly overcome with tears at the sight of a little angel. I don’t know where this fits into my conversation, but as I have learned and relearned, there are no accidents.
I am doing a poor job of writing about the magic of life and love and the little one is staring at me from under her little, white sun hat, bursting my heart.
We all make choices that affect ourselves and others. Hopefully, we can look into our hearts and find our place in the world around us, one that owns itself, breathes its own air and takes responsibility for its choices, reveling in the outcome.
So, that’s my family story for right now.
As always, I am grateful for your time.
EPILOGUE: I put the computer away in my backpack, tucked under my feet. I wanted to write one more thing: I love my life, and I am nothing, but humble and in no way righteous, just a dumb ass pilgrim.