The Elephant in the Blog

The real meaning of enlightenment is to gaze with undimmed eyes on all darkness.

~ Nikos Kazantzakis

She sat there, in her normal spot, my La-Z-Boy chair at the foot of my bed in the corner of my bedroom next to the window that faces the sunset, in her typical manner, legs folded under and one elbow perched on the soft and cushiony armrest, at or around the usual time of day, in those desirably peaceful and yet mindlessly frantic moments that precede the closing of eyes and the dreaming of dreams, so her presence did not startle me.

No book sat open in her lap. No tales of wizards and witches on broomsticks or teenagers with wings or drawings and words inside and outside boxes about a little boy named after a theologian with a tiger named after a philosopher for a friend. No mystery for me to hear her unravel or adventure to watch her ride upon or joke for me to get, again.

I stopped cold, the smile on my face gone with the realization that she sat there crying. Staring at me and through me and beyond me at the significance and meaning of me. At a place without me. So she cried, tears so big, from a place where tears store up over time before overflowing uncontrollably and torrential.

She said she doesn’t want me to die.

How do you talk about something so top-heavy with what-ifs? In one scenario, the words eventually dead end upon the bone-shattering rocks of some imaginary torment, conceiving the inconceivable, and we are left staring, at nothing, our minds at the end of the world, with eyes so wide our muscles ache. Or, if we can manage to staunch the flood, we take control of the words, the careening thoughts, and steer them along an alternate route, away from fantastic and horrific speculations, and back to reality, toward what can be accomplished. Each avenue have a fecundity all its own, and it takes skill to recognize the divergence and bend that fork back together.

To allow the tears to flow, even as we wipe them away.

***

Smoking has become the elephant in the room around here. I stare at it on occasion, point to it and ask you to do the same, and then we move on. I write posts about wanting to quit, you encourage me to do so, and then we move on. I move on. And keep right on smoking.

Ignoring the elephant.

Sometimes, you see it. You ask me how it’s going. And then I either lie and say it’s going great, or I say something completely meaningless and void of any manner of conviction, like, “Well, it’s hard, but I’m trying.”

Read: I’m still smoking.

One thing I’ve learned about smoking is that there is no real discernable and immediate consequence for not quitting. For continuing to smoke. Sure, my lungs are working harder and my joints are stiffening and my heart is pumping faster, but that shit doesn’t happen overnight and is quite manageable in the short run. If given less than a moment’s thought, each of those things vanish under the rug that aging pulls over us when we’re not looking. While we’re busy doing other things.

Like blogging. It may sound cliché, but it is an honor to write for you. You don’t have to read my blog, but you do. You make your way here, read my ramblings, sometimes comment, and then move on, a few minutes each week that add up to one big smile on my sagging face. But you’re not stupid. You know the elephant is there. You ignore it as well, and forgive me when I do the same.

Can I be completely honest with you?

It’s time to stomp the fucking elephant.

I’m tired of writing about smoking. About how much I hate it and love it and can’t live with our without it. At the same time, I’m tired of ignoring it. Of brushing aside your kindness.

Of trying to dry my daughter’s tears, only to see them spill over, again and again and again. She cannot ignore the elephant. She refuses to do so.

***

I took my last drag on Sunday, June 27^th, 2010, at 10:02 PM. Before I took it, I stopped and thought about the import of the moment. I asked myself if I could follow through. If I could do the thing I have decided to do . . .

If I ever smoke another cigarette, then I will delete this blog.

Since that moment with my daughter, about a month or so ago, I’ve been laying a foundation. Preparing for this moment. I have a plan, it’s working, and I’ll perhaps share with you some of the things I’ve learned in the coming weeks. For now, I give you a date, and a promise. In case you missed it . . .

If I smoke another cigarette, then I will delete this blog.

The entire blog. I know how to do it. Have only seriously considered doing it once. And now, all these years and posts later, I can’t imagine ever hitting that button. But I will. Because I figure that if I choose smoking over blogging, then there is something very wrong with me. And I needed a choice. A real one. Something I could make happen. And I don’t see this as a punishment. A negative thing. Instead, I see this as an opportunity to keep doing the one thing, besides smoking, that brings me pleasure. A measure of fulfillment. A million reasons to celebrate life. And the consequences of my choice are discernable and immediate.

I imagine some of you will think I’ve set myself up for failure. That I have set before me an impossible task.

You might be right. But it had to be done.

Or you might be thinking that, at some point in the future, I will find some loophole in my logic and take up smoking again. While if/then statements are generally hard to refute, any proposition has its logical limits, and a skilled bullshitter can find a way. I know this, for I am the king of bullshitters, and I am getting better at calling it on myself.

Simply? I had to choose. Life is about choices, after all. And for choices to have meaning, they must carry some weight.

I will blog. And I will not smoke. I am:

I made a badge. Isn’t that special? I made an even bigger one as well:

I must be bored. Or maybe serious . . .

***

Oh, and Amanda?

It’s on. I get to pick, though, so stay tuned for Songs for Amanda, coming soon . . .

[Flickr photo is by exfordy and is protected]

Happy Booples Day

Nirvana or lasting enlightenment or true spiritual growth can be achieved only through persistent exercise of real love.

~ M. Scott Peck

Last evening, before crashing on my pillow for a night of highly-anticipated, restful sleep, I spent some time chatting up my girls, talking about things we wanted to do this week. I’m on a bit of a vacation and the boys will be out of town, so it’s our chance to hang out and do things they like. Things that don’t happen on a PS3. My oldest told me she planned on starting the week by making a huge omelet for mom on Sunday morning, since it’s her birthday.

What?!

I had completely forgotten.

Again.

In my defense, there has been a running joke for years between my wife and I that her real birthday is on July 26^th. I messed it up badly back when we first started dating, and all these years later . . . well, there it is.

And so I didn’t sleep too well. Instead, I tossed and turned, trying to think of some way I could make this day special, in spite of the fact that we will be busy spending the day running our boys to their various activities. This will have to do . . .

Her name is Garsy, but she will always be Booples to me. Which is short for Honeybooples, a name a created just for her over lunch one day during our college years. I have no clue where it came from, if perhaps I subconsciously lifted it from somewhere or maybe overheard it once, but it has stuck.

Booples, can you bring me some toilet paper?

Booples, where are my keys?

Booples, I’ll give you a nickel for some fried eggs and potatoes.

I could go on, but you get the picture. Like all lasting terms of endearment, it is our name. No one else calls her that, and no one ever will.

My Booples . . .

It has been, and still is, my pleasure to watch you grow. As a person. As a mom. As a wife and friend.

To look at all the pictures you take. Even with a relatively cheap camera, you capture the dance of this crazy world of ours, seeing the most beautiful of movements even in the silent, wispy things.

To take your hand, wherever we are, and feel the familiarity of your touch. To still feel the rush that accompanies even the smallest peck.

To just know – instinctively, born from years of companionship – what stirs, and breaks, your heart. To care for those you care for, and love those you have chosen to love.

To see that sparkle, and listen to you give that sparkle words, when you share something you’ve read in a book or discovered along this road. To live vicariously, and grow beyond my own boundaries, through your blessed perspective.

To awaken each day with you curled up beside me, your hand draped over my chest, holding me close. You cling tightly, reminding me that you will always be here, no matter what each minute brings. Yet not too tightly, never smothering, but everpresent. Flesh of my flesh.

At the end of this day, as at the end of every day, you and I will still be together. We will be different. We will have grown a bit. Maybe a lot. Yet we will be, in so many ways, the same. For that, for all of this, and for who you are, and have become, and are becoming, I am so in love with you still.

My Booples . . .

Me

It is not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles.

~ Niccolo Machiavelli

Who cut each cord, with hands trembling, bug-eyed and misty?

Who laughs in the face of those afraid of a little projectile vomit?

Who cries a little and chokes on that throaty lump as you take the stage at every school event?

Who got a wee bit depressed when he realized that the days of you running out onto the driveway to greet him after work, arms waving, shrieking “Daddy’s home!” were over?

Who fed you Blueberry Buckle straight from the glass jar with a spoon that looked like Bugs Bunny? And snuck a few bites himself?

Who held his heart in his hand, pumping blood onto the streets for everyone to see, when you slipped away from us and it took so many empty minutes to find you?

Who loves to just sit and watch you do whatever you may be doing?

Who got bent out of shape over a potato chip and made you cry?

Who sometimes tiptoes into your room when you are fast asleep, settles on the edge of your bed, and brushes the hair off your sweaty cheek, thinking over nothing and everything as you gently breathe?

Who bitches at you about your grades and your lack of effort and only later realizing that you merely practice what you see?

Who hugs you and leans in to peck your cheek because most days that is all he’s able to offer?

Who can still kick all y’all’s butts in a wrestling match? Especially if he resorts to tickling?

Who wants to take you places and show you things? Who forgets that you have already seen and done so much?

Who sees for each of you a time in the future when you’ll look back on all this, and all that is still to come, and perhaps forgive him? When he will perhaps come to grips with that fact that you already have?

Who straddles the line that separates Failure and Father? Who wonders if that line is not drawn in shifting sand? Or maybe even a mirage of his own making?

Who desires your happiness more than anything?

Who wonders, when the room is quiet or when you are prancing and prowling about, what you’ll become?

Who dreams of bigger things for you than he ever dreamed of for himself?

Who hopes you will be doers, and not merely dreamers?

Who loves each of you so much he gasps at the thought?

Who is so very proud and honored and humbled to be your father?

Who has to go to bed now, so he can get up early and make the ice cream?

Who will be dreaming of you . . .

The Generous (little) Mr. Lovewell

Kindness is the only service that will stand the storm of life and not wash out. It will wear well and will be remembered long after the prism of politeness or the complexion of courtesy has faded away.

~ Abraham Lincoln (1809 – 1865)

The facts are these:

At the annual year-end camping trip, a group of girls sat at a table eating breakfast. There were plenty of seats available. Yet another girl, when she tried to sit down – her tray perched precariously on her forearm and a hopeful smile adorning her face – she was told to move along; there wasn’t enough room for her to join.

Words were exchanged. Giggles and snark were on the menu, an appetizer, the standard fare of 5^th grade.

The girl looked around the room for other options.

A boy, having found his own seat away from the crowd, took notice. He stood up, waved her over, and told her she could sit with him if she wanted.

She did. She smiled.

We heard about this from the mother of one of the girls at the “crowded” table. She offered it to us as a recognition of our son’s generosity.

Is it any wonder that this is my son’s new favorite song . . .

He wakes up every day the same
Believin’ he’s gonna make a change
Never wonders “if” but “when”
I guarantee he can find a way
To reach out and make somebody’s day

[Flickr photo is by cbanck and is protected]

Wet

If it’s not fun, you’re not doing it right.

~ Bob Basso

I am Tysdaddy, the God of Wet Children. The Stirrer of Soaky Shenanigans. And I don’t care what they think.

Let me explain . . .

Today was Field Day at the elementary school my children attend, a day set aside at the end of the academic year for the kids to get out, unwind, yell a lot, and have fun. And, as she does every year, my wife signed us up to work an activity for the munchkins. This year, we were assigned to lead a game called Aqua Bombs. The premise is simple, really: Take two buckets filled with water, throw in a bunch of those little spongy balls like you see at the beach or in the pool, add some kids, and let them play catch.

People are going to get wet. And we were the star attraction.

The little tykes, from kindergarten through third grade, played nice for the most part. They tossed their watery projectiles and, when the whistle blew ending their session, they trod away content, albeit a little damp. We kept the peace as best as any set of parent volunteers should be expected to: We encouraged sharing; told them that, no, dumping the bucket on Johnnie’s head, while surely a seemingly fun enterprise, might not be appropriate; smiled a lot. And I filled up the buckets when needed by lugging them to the maintenance area and lugging them back so the fun could continue.

That last part? Boring. And a bit too laborious for a guy on his day off.

So, with a wink and a smile, I suggested to the maintenance dude that he hook me up with a hose. Preferably with a squirty thingy on the end . . . whatever the hell those thingies are called. He took me seriously, and during the fourth- and fifth-grade session, he delivered.

My AHED defines mayhem as “A state of violent disorder or riotous confusion; havoc.”

Trust me, it wasn’t that bad.

Well . . . maybe for a moment or two. But only if you consider a high-velocity stream of water in the face violent. They begged, I swear! And I’ve never been one to deny a bunch of kids a good time. Definitely not when there is water involved. Most definitely not when they beg. And they were polite! The entire group joined me in a rousing chorus of “THANK YOU, MR. MAINTENANCE DUDE!” The angels sang hallelujah! The sun, as if on cue, sprang from behind the as-of-late ever-present clouds and showered us with her blessed presence. A throng of parched worshippers surrounded me and lapped up gallon after glorious gallon of the icy nectar of the Earth. Other adults stood at the perimeter of our merry mob, smiles on their faces, jealousy seeping from every orifice of their being. I was the cool parent, and their games sucked. And they were cool with that.

Yeah, people got wet.

And then a cackle broke through the din. A couple actually. Two teachers rained on our party.

“They have to wear those clothes the rest of the day, you know?!” seemed to be the sum of their grievances.

Duh. I knew that. The kids knew that. Yeah, there would be some chaffing. Maybe a few desks or lunch tables marked with glistening impressions of still-damp forearms. Perhaps a sniffle or two after returning inside to the air-conditioned confines. But . . . really. Honestly! They’re kids. And, given enough exposure to pure air, they will dry.

But the looks continued. The lowered chins and upturned eyes and the hands on the hips. The message was clear: “Stop this, Mr. Thomas!” So, I holstered the hose, using it only to fill the buckets, and then, exasperated by it all, eventually wound it back up, gathered the balls, and let the kids wander off to play other, drier, games, disheartened frowns of their faces. But not before giving them a pep talk about not complaining, not going to the nurse to ask for dry clothes, and definitely not griping about the unfairness of it all. It was a good speech, like the kind the coaches in movies give to their teams before marching onto the field to face some dominating adversary. We would kill them with kindness.

Or something like that.

During the lunch break, my wife and I stopped at the local supermarket for a salad, where I also decided to pick up a Louisiana Crunch Cake that I could inconspicuously sneak into the teacher’s lounge. “A peace offering,” I told the principal. She just smiled and told me all was hunky dory. “It’s about having fun, isn’t it?” she confided.

I like her. She gets it. I think I just might have to dump some Gatorade over her head next time I see her. Now that would be wet, soaky fun . . .

[Flickr photo is by Clearly Ambiguous and is protected]