"Until Next Time..."

There's a scene at the end of the Oscar-winning film Kramer vs. Kramer that will forever shred me. And you don' have to be a product or agent of divorce to absorb its raw power.

It happens in the kitchen. The evolution of father and son duo Ted and Billy Kramer encores a moment captured earlier in the film when Ted enlists the help of his son to make French toast for breakfast. The earlier scene is riddled with the anxiety and stress of a solo parent trying desperately to uphold the familiarity of routine. Ted frantically shuffles through the recipe while Billy can only hold on for dear life as Dad fucks everything up on his own.

And then later, in Act III, that beautiful moment when they find their rhythm... Ted and Billy perform the very same process of cooking French toast -- only by then it unfolds with the poetry of jazz. But lurking beneath the surface of their rhythm is a heartbreaking truth: within the next hour, Ted will have to surrender Billy to his estranged mother and their dynamic will forever be relegated to history. They both know this, and in one brilliant moment of impossible theater, they catch each other's eye and accept the fate of their relationship.

I have never - ever - been able to get through this cinematic moment without crumbling. Well, perhaps crumbling is too considerate of a description...

I am deeply fortunate in that my relationship with my daughters has been emboldened in such a rich and authentic history that reinforces we will never truly be "apart". When Annalise was born, I was on the receiving end of her arrival. When Laila was born, I was literally the one who pulled her into this world. From their very first moments, we were tethered by love, progeny, and promise. And even as I kiss them good-bye, I know that it's just a temporary purgatory for us all; that soon we will find each other again and resume kindling torches lit 11 and eight years ago, respectively.

They arrived just five short days ago for their annual Thanksgiving trek to Ohio. I drove to Detroit Airport Tuesday evening, and now here I sit facing the drive back in even shorter hours. As we began the process of tucking them in for bedtime, the waterworks began... First Laila. Then Me. Then Lisey. Soon we were a trio of sniffles, stunted words, smeared cheeks, and then sobbing. Three scarred souls holding each other in the darkness while the tick-tock of time edged us that much closer to good-bye.

I love my children. I left because I didn't know how to properly love myself. I was a fucking wreck in Iowa -- isolated, stressed, depressed, and anxious. I knew that if I didn't save myself that the aforementioned pressures would see to it that I met an early demise. Fear then became yet another aggressor. But trying to explain to a (then) nine and six-year-old as to how and why I needed to leave them became an emotional crusade that I know now will last me the rest of my life.

Tonight I was reminded of that crusade; reminded of how I cultured each relationship by hand and by heart; reminded of how I was too weak to remain in their lives as a reliable curator; reminded of how I ran away screaming from my own children as a man who had only ever read about being a Man... And that I had to admit this to them, to their perfect little faces... Only to discover tonight that none of it mattered. That I was haunting myself with the same pain they had been feeling ever since I walked away. That there they were -- harnessed and saddled right beside me on this journey through Shit Happens, USA.

Discovering right then and there that I wasn't alone in my crusade was the most redeeming sip of soulful serum I've ever tasted.

Yes, I'm going to bed with tears on my pillow, but I know that I'll wake up as part of a far more powerful trinity than any father, son, or holy ghost (alienating Catholic readers in 3...2...1...). That alone makes the next few weeks that separate me from my daughters all the more palatable.

Just hang on, girls -- Daddy's on his way.

Until then, however, keep doing what you're doing.

Until then, keep x'ing off the days on the calendar.

Until then, keep on keeping on.

Until then... I'll just fucking miss You.

"43 and Me"

Today marks my 43rd trip around the sun, which typically results in the kind of reflecting one adopts more and more as the emotional wear and tear starts peeking out from beneath the rust. For me, this past 12-month cycle cannot in any way be compared to the 42 calendar years that preceded it. I dove headlong into my second year of teaching high school in the inner city, ventured back and forth to Iowa to see my daughters, witnessed the onset of a pandemic and ensuing lockdown, wrote my first screenplay in five years, almost finished editing my first (co-authored) book, hosted my daughters here in Ohio for nearly a month over the summer, enrolled in a (free!) online Masters program, drove to Myrtle Beach for a 10-day vacation with J, began teaching remotely for the first time, and just celebrated Thanksgiving at home alone with J as we avoided the holiday crowds and second wave of the Covid surge. Oh, and I walked an estimated 775 miles through two-and-a-half pairs of shoes.

Walking has always been my favorite solo activity. I love the celebration of independence and spirit. I use the time to reflect, outline, write, and learn. Along the miles, I've listened to countless hours of audio books, lectures, TED Talks, podcasts, and meditations. I've taken notes on philosophy and recorded open mic musings that vow to reach beyond platitudes with something a little more incisive and indelible. I've spent the time counting my blessings rather than my steps.

A lot of that time has been spent lamenting the loss of my youth and the proximity I once shared with my daughters. Growing up was never my first choice, and my decision to move away from Annalise and Laila caused a seismic heartbreak in all three of us -- but it was a decision made to preserve not only my ruptured mental health but the longevity of the dynamic we cultured back in the chapters of Iowa. Long story short: it's a bittersweet pill to swallow each new day. But I do it because I know in my heart of hearts it was the right thing to do for us all. And it was especially the right thing to do for Me. Not a selfish act, but a clear and present act of self love. Maybe even my first, consciously.

Learning to love myself has been no picnic. From as far back as I can remember, I was outweighed by my insecurities, anxieties, and lack of self discipline. Escape was my middle name, writ large by my impulsive move to St. Pete Beach, Florida on January 31, 2001. I ran hard and fast as far south as my dwindling bank account could take me and spent the next 11 years rapt in the waterfront casual rhythms of a Jimmy Buffett reverie. And I was pretty goddamn good at it, too. Until life got in the way and I surrendered my comfortably numb persona to the delusion of domestic bliss. Another long story short: Peter Pan should never land, ever. (See what I did there?) But he did, and he wasn't very good at the whole gravity thing. I remember those days now and where they ultimately led me: to a new life and career in middle America; to divorce and through its subsequent halls of melancholia; to new light, a new me, and new love; and now I percolate with happiness for the person I have become through it all. Still a smartass, still a contrarian, still a transgressive, and still far from perfect, I do, however, wear different shoes and walk many different miles in different directions -- not to distance myself from the rubble and resurrection of my past, but to keep this smiling shit show moving forward.

Today was a perfect day. On the eve of 43, I sit back to reflect on how today I woke up happiest beside her, wrote term papers beside her, shared a vegan Thanksgiving meal with only her, sat and talked - really talked - with just her, and lounged giddily beside her on the couch to watch movies by the fire. And tomorrow I get to do it all again.

If the next 43 look like this, I can see myself falling further in love with me... and with her, too.

"The Only Way Out is Through."

The last three days have been an emotional shit storm. Packing, recycling, donating, throwing away, burning, and burying. Sorting through the detritus of my last four years is no picnic, though I can admit that it is indeed a celebration and a salvation. So many people greet these crossroads in their evolution and pivot immediately to side-step the hurting and the grief in search of the elusive fast-forward button:

Just get me to the end of this.

Just fake it until you make it.

Just let me fall asleep and wake up when this is all over.

I, however, have finally learned that Life has no remote control and that I must stand at every crossroad with the only GPS any of us should ever know:

Today I put mile #1 on the hardest road I've yet traveled. You've gotta go through it to get to it.

Or, as the genius poet Robert Frost famously deliberated, "The only way out is through."

As I pace the thinning corridors of my Iowa home, I uncover the countless artifacts of my journey. In every closet, cupboard, and cranny there are pieces of the me I have loved, loathed, and discovered anew. Moments of Me on the Journey of Me. And then, amidst the rubble, are pieces of them. My daughters, so righteous and pure. Sippy cups and silly straws and lunchboxes and toys and accessories and unpaired socks and dried paint on the wall and broken pieces of house and candy and toys and souvenirs and dents and more unpaired socks and Disney plates and tap shoes and games and books and then there's just me in the middle of it all. I swear, I have tremored and bawled more times in the last 72 hours than I have in all my life, and make no mistake about it, this is not the pretty, romanticized crying you see in movies -- this is the loud, tumultuous sobbing that shows up on the Doppler radar. (I do not doubt for a second that the last two instances of rain over the Quad Cities were entirely my doing.)

In less than 48 hours, I will be on my way back home. This was no easy decision, by any means, and as I wade through the pieces and parts of my captivity here, I cannot help but to recognize both my failures and successes as a single father. I sink burning into the memory of so many pathetic moments when my patience and interest and example left my daughters quaking, puzzled, or vacant. Then I beam in the reflection of episodes when I won them over and made them laugh and spoiled them with whatever their little hearts desired in that moment. These last three days have been like watching a reel of all my hits and misfires in HD.

On Sunday I hosted a garage/estate sale to rid myself of anything and everything that won't be making the trip back to Ohio. Both of my girls were so sweet in helping me sort and set up for the event, never once articulating how any of it was affecting them emotionally. They put price tags on garage sale items (many of which were the toys that kept them entertained when I could not) and waited patiently for customers to arrive so they could collect money and play the part of retail robots. When the long afternoon had ended and we all wound up back inside, I found myself frozen over the threshold of their bedroom doorway, looking into the vast emptiness of a space that, only hours before, was alive with their synergy and essence. When I stood in the kitchen moments later, Annalise, my oldest daughter, saw that I was crumbling and ran over to embrace me. All I could do was pant out the phrase "I'm so sorry, girls... I really tried to make this work." I was afraid that seeing me like that would terrify them, and yet they both converged on me with a fleet of arms. Shortly after that, they loaded into their mom and step-father's car and drove away. I stepped back into the house, locked the door behind me, and fell to pieces across the floor. Over the course of the next two hours, all I could do was waft from room to room, whimpering my apologies to the ghosts of childhoods' past.

"So I cruised along, doing my thing, acting the fool -- not really understanding how being a parent changes you. And I don't remember the exact moment that everything changed, I just know that it did. One minute I was impenetrable, nothing could touch me. The next, my heart was somehow beating outside my chest, exposed to the elements. Loving you has been the most profound, intense, and painful experience of my life. As your father I made a silent vow to protect you from the world, never realizing I was the one who would end up hurting you the most." - Hank Moody

Each day since then has been a balancing act. Packing, recycling, donating, burning, and burying... Every artifact brings a smile and/or a tear. I'll have put a major dent in the gathering of essentials over the course of an hour, only to be waylaid for the next hour by the catch and release of yet another emotionally sermonic memory. I am alone in this haunted house, the torturer and teacher of my own soul.

...And this is okay, this is good. All too often we find ourselves apologizing to those around us when we get emotional, as if it's a shameful act. We've been taught and conditioned that any such emotional expression is a sign of weakness and failure. I've been isolated long enough by this point that my emotional side has become the only me I have gotten to know out here. Understanding my visceral journey has only been possible because of my isolation. If during these trials I were to have been living closely to those who dodge their feelings by hurdling life's real moments, then I'd surely have fallen into their trusted patterns of self-assured-self-medication. Any authenticity I sought would lay buried low and impotent beneath the soil of today's ultra-sensitive culture. So as I reflect on Act One's depression and grief, Act Two's post-traumatic stress, and finally Act Three's poignant redemption, I find myself...

Well, that's just it -- I find Myself. Here I am and here I stand. In one piece made of many, many broken pieces. Yesterday's shrapnel is today's wisdom is tomorrow's triumph.

Mile #1 doesn't look so scary anymore. In fact, it may just be the most beautiful promise I've ever made myself.

© 2018

"Wash, Rinse, Panic, Repeat"

On the phonograph of broken records, the song I hear as a residual haunting has got to be that one where I hear the voice of anxiety within my own. My baritone drops to a bass and the drum of my heart rallies the choir of my breathing. I hear someone I told myself a long time ago that I would not, could not, ever become. I hear a man who has forgotten the simple joys of being a boy. By now so many of us have, but I stand here as my adult self in the wake of my most recent self-induced panic storm missing the boy who could laugh it all off and call the Devil a pussy. My adult self is far too removed. Today I spend half my days in the trenches of single parenting trying to load a Browning with blanks. I'm at war with myself. It's Me versus Me, always.

Today I battled the Me I hate, and lost. I'm not sure I even tried to win. I got overwhelmed by the synergy of my children as I tried to accomplish a few menial tasks...

That's it. That's all it took.

My focus blurred and my ears rang with a volume that only my children can achieve. A rage swelled that both galvanized and drained me. After I slain their fun and games with my trigger happy buzzkill blast, that cold ghost of shame showed its face again. I stood there on the verge of tears as I bumbled through an apology that by now, too, is its own broken record. But it's not a song any of us like. It's that one on the playlist that just won't skip or delete. I had to look into those trembling blue eyes and admit to them that I had (again) fucked up and that (again) I didn't mean what I said or (again) how I said it. Stress, anxiety, blowout; apology, hugs, kisses; repeat.

The noise. The messes. The play dates. The lectures. The endless questions. The boo boo's. The bickering. The fickle sway of sisterly provocation. The up-at-dawn agenda of childish ambition. The weekly visits to the park, the library, the pool, the Family Museum, that other place... This is the grocery list that feeds my anxiety.

Today I screamed an opera into my pillow. 20 minutes after that I was laughing through tears at the foot of my bed. A half-hour later I was bookended on the couch by two adoring blondes who trust me to make their lives extraordinary. We watched E.T. and I tried to explain that it wasn't just a movie about an alien befriending a little boy but that it was a story about divorce and a child who felt like an alien in his own home, and how saying goodbye to E.T. at the end meant saying goodbye to his dad all over again...

There's something about the squeeze a child puts on your arm when they see you cry.

Attitude is everything, they say. Most days I wake up pret a porter and anxious -- in a good way -- to get back out on that yellow brick road and lead the kids toward that Emerald City of Fantastic Fun and Priceless Memories With Dad. By noon the attitude has dipped in the wake of breakfast clean-up, laundry detail, sibling refereeing, volume control, and lunch prep (and lunch prep clean-up). By the time the dishwasher's been loaded and the clothes folded, I try the old boot strap method of sucking it up, rubbing some dirt on it, and getting back in the game... only the coach is hungover, the QB has a sore arm, and the star running back has tied his fucking shoelaces together. Blue 42! Blue 42! Hut-hut... Hike!

Sitting here now in the quiet house that sleeps when only they sleep, I can only shake my head as I reflect on yet another L in the standings. Not a winning season by any means. I'm exhausted and misty-eyed and waiting for the laughter to return to rinse away the shame. I don't imagine they'll be retiring my jersey after this season. Not unless I can turn this shit around... I think it's time Team Anxiety loses its star player.

Tomorrow I will be better. I will resurrect the boy who used to laugh it all off and twirl his middle finger at the Devil, and I will load that goddamn dishwasher with a goddamn smile on my goddamn face, and I will remember to breathe. Remember what Inner Axis founder Max Strom has taught me: Breathing is free and has no side effects. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.

Focus, calm, non-reactiveness.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

© 2017

"Love is a Many Splintered Thing"

When is it valid to tell yourself that it's okay to fall in Love? How do we, as simple creatures as we all are, give ourselves the green light to go ahead and submit to the capricious spiral of Love and all its trappings? If there are signals or moments when this possibility allows itself to us, then we must examine how we have come to arrive there and just who exactly is this person whom we feel so compelled to offer our most vulnerable of chasms? And just who the hell are we at that particular moment?

Love, they have written, is a many splendored thing. It's bold and fierce. It can be soft and submissive. Love is fickle and fleeting, tireless and exhausting. When in Love, we find ourselves making excuses for those we excessively adore so that we can perpetuate the narcotic and its prolonged effects. Love can also be false and fatuous; a lie we tell ourselves out of the sheer patheticism that maddens us during episodes of rejection and self-doubt. (For a clear and present Pop Culture example of this, you need not go further than to hear Sam Smith's painfully pleading ballad, "Stay With Me.") But what is it about Love that causes such surrender? And as we mature, isn't it such a fascinating study how our understanding, value, and allowance of those we elect to admit this volatile feeling evolve during the scope of our journeys? I, for one, fall in Love with women so Goddamn frequently that I often quarantine myself in meditation so that I can wade through my own tides and examine - fucking thoroughly - just what it is about Love that toys with me so freely. Thankfully, though, I seldom profess these feelings to those worthiest of women who have inspired Love in me, but I am finding myself all too often a slave to its charms and accords -- in spite of all its twisted tortures and grownup agonies.

Backing up, I keep asking myself why it is that I fall in love with these women. The answer always harbors three pertinent ingredients: intelligence (first and foremost), composure, and outright beauty. (I am a writer of poetry -- physical beauty is an essential calorie for me. Call me shallow, fine, but mine eyes feast on the female form and all its exalting returns…)

I'm a sapiophile, no doubt. To engage with a smart woman is like a steak and red wine dinner for my soul -- and I'm a vegetarian, for fuck's sake! And those women who, as we tend to say in the parlance of our times, "have their shit together," are such a refreshing reminder that not all of today's girls are polluted by melodrama, melancholy, apathy, and the quest for "likes". A motivated and collected woman is the best show in town. Though what happens when she possesses all three of these rare vitals? Somehow, in some way, she finds herself in my court. In the past year, I have been privileged to fall into the orbit of many such a creature -- and I fall face-first every time. Damn my venerable standards!

And yet, here I sit, reflective and single... and I am very o-fucking-kay with that. As you can understand, a woman of such power is an investment, both physically and emotionally. And that, precisely, is Love in a nutshell. (Heavy emphasis on the nut part.) It's not that I am denying myself the adventure of Love -- I am not -- it's just that I am not quite done with my studies. I am unaware of any greater textbook than the Modern Woman, and there are endless volumes to read and research and memorize and understand. It's an all-encompassing study that may just take the rest of my life… but I am all in, considering the elements. Love is the finest teacher of life's most promising and rewarding gifts. Love is a channel to the soul of existence. Love wakes us up in the morning and lulls us to sleep at night. Love both detonates and nurses our finest miseries. Love is the perplexity that corrupts our emotional grounding. Love, too, is the final solution.

I've been told that eventually you get too old for new Love and you just become haunted by old flames and spend the rest of your life reflecting on them and reenacting them with lesser candidates. I can't admit that I will be one who practices such things. I can, however, profess rather openly that I will continue to fall in Love with an expansive parliament of profound, sensible, and beautiful women before my end of days. It's how I know I'm still me, and it's how I truly find my connective purpose in a world of shallow consumers and illiterate strumpets. Love is a daunting risk and a sovereign prize. Sign me up.

© 2014