Find Your Center

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I noticed an older man teaching a young girl how to ride her bike on the walking trail yesterday. He firmly held the seat, the other hand gently on her back, while she peddled. She could not comprehend the up-down peddling motion and how to center her torso to stay upright. He gave it all he had. 

When my father and his new girlfriend bought my sisters and me new red bikes one Christmas, I don't remember him behind me, one had placed firmly on the bike the other gently on my back. I remember peddling, feet slipping, chain burns, stubbed fingers, frustration. I was learning to ride a bike the best way I knew how, through practice. 

The day is burned into my memory because I knew what he was doing. He was preparing his triple daughters for a world without him. He was doing what a man with conflicting views about family life, love, and commitment does; he watched from a distance. 

I learned to fly that day. I learned to steady my center, focus my attention, and ride the line.  I learned that in this life the most significant lessons come from what you learn on your own, lessons learned through practice, trial-and-error. My father provided the vehicle for exploration. 

 

Conversations With The Dominant Class 

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What would conversations with the dominant class in American look like? What questions would the rest of us ask? What would we say?

How would we self-justify our position in the world against theirs? 

Would we talk about needing better schools for our children and better jobs for our families? What would be the response to this? 

Would we discuss politics in a way that encouraged them to take our side and reason against capitalism? 

Having to resort to theatrics, what If I took out a blade and cut open my hand to show that we indeed bleed the same blood would that make a difference in how we relate to each other? 

Who would I have to become to speak the language?  

Hospital Visits

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photo credit: https://unsplash.com/@daanstevens

photo credit: https://unsplash.com/@daanstevens

You learn a lot about yourself in a hospital, like what the end of life looks like, how to exist in a space where death is breathable, what comforting the sick and injured feels like, and how to accept that this life, like everything in it, is fleeting.

My father-in-law had no idea what he was getting into when a caramel girl, who loves books, art, and the insides of people decided to marry his son. It's not like I knew I was gaining a father who loves cookies, spending time at his car shop, having the backs of his oldest friends, and a man who would not leave Cleveland, Ohio if you told him the world was ending exactly where his house sits. We got each other. A decent exchange.

This past weekend, my father-in-law of one year and ten months lay still in a hospital bed at the Cleveland Clinic. He looked tired. I guess triple heart bypass surgery will do that to you. All I could do is stare at the man my husband loves with all his heart. The room was dark, except for the dancing medical machine lights. I sat in a chair next to his bed. He heard us come in and said, ''oh, I'm not sleep" as if he wanted and needed the company.

While sitting in that chair across from my father, I thought about his life, the many choices that led to this exact moment. This distress was what he had hoped to avoid after watching and caring for his mother. She died of a health-related disease.

My mother spoke of generational curses often growing up, and at this time the bad omen of diabetes has my older brother and older sister in its grip. We do unspeakable things to ourselves.

As I do to my husband nights when I can not sleep, in the dark, I rubbed the back of dad-in-law's head and whispered you're okay, its okay, you're safe now.

What I learned that day in the hospital is that family can comfort you in your darkest moments. They have the ability to whisper in your ear -- you're okay, its okay, you're safe now.

In those moments, you and I remember what we have in each other; we remember that in order not to labor in vain we need mission and purpose, we remember that what we have given, we will receive.

This piece was originally posted here as "You're Okay, Its Okay, You're Safe Now"

 

Technology & Children

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Photo by John Robert 

Photo by John Robert 

The kids, not knowing what to do or why a day with dad ended up in a Starbucks with him scrolling through Instagram as they took in the coffee shop's patrons. He unintentionally, yet intentionally creating space between him and his children. They tap, prod, whine, beg to leave the place filled with a strange bean aroma.

Their mother probably needed a day to herself not knowing that the kids would go without supervision for 45 minutes to 1 hour. The man she created these children with would be there and not there at the same time. 

I wonder does she know her husband spends his mental free time on social sites spying? First, it was a photo of a fancy digital camera, then a woman posing in front of the camera. He smirks. Then, it's the woman who owns the camera smiling with her small gray-haired dog. He scrolls. Another photo of her on the beach, in the water, laughing. He thinks about her and possibly the beach. A moment on the beach with her? No, that would be taking it too far. He, of course, has more "self-control" than that. The man, the father of three, hits the back button to pursue other eye candy.

Do you think we do it on purpose? We zone the entire world out to give into our secret desires. Our desires to look, over consume, obsess? Our friends, family, and children simply casualties of war. The war for our attention fought with a small device in the palm of our hands, and we win and lose the battle each day.

The people closest to us stand by, unaware if we are there or not, if we are researching a thought, completing a quick search, or in the midst of our secrets.

Technology, a tool that connects and disconnects has found its way into a day with dad.

Two girls, one boy, a combination any childless home would take in an instant. He is taking that time, those precious moments for granted. It's not until those things we love are gone that we desire to have them back. But those are dog wishes, prayers unheard, for the universe only moves in one direction, forward.

Photo by Clem Onojeghu

Photo by Clem Onojeghu

It's what happens when we get what we want. Years without children can dampen the love between two people. But having is not the same thing as not having. We have, and so we desire more or something else altogether.

The plight of being human I guess.