Walk in the Woods
Short: Left on Maple Ridge
Left On Maplecrest, a story about a battered hitchhiker.
The sun was fading when Jake stopped to pick up Oscar. They planned to drive up to the damn to have a beer, catch up on life, and watch the sun set. And when they arrived, the small park beside the damn was mostly empty, the lone exception being a solitary person sitting at a concrete picnic table under two pines. The figure sported a gray hoodie and appeared to be traveling with several plastic shopping bags. Jake thought it strange to see a homeless person so far from town, then concluded the traveler wasn’t homeless and managed to hitchhike up to the damn.
The pair strolled from the parking lot to the other side of the park near the water and settled into a wooden blue bench facing the lake. With the sun drooping lower, they began to catch up on their summer exploits. Oscar had visited Mexico in hopes of wooing a young lady, which didn’t go well. Whatever window existed for the romance died when she told him she had boyfriend. And Oscar admitted he took too long to make his move. His divorce had made him shy but he resolved not to repeat his mistake in the future. After leaving Mexico, he flew to Miami and spent the rest of the summer working remote and caring for his aging aunt.
Jake had visited Montreal and Boston and found both cities to be underwhelming. He explained his opinion and Oscar nodded along. During the course of the conversation with Jake discovered he’d lost his appreciation for big cities, that after a few days, they all seemed to run together, one indistinguishable from the next. The thought stunned him but seemed more true the longer he dwelled on it.
“You gotta leave the US,“ laughed Oscar. “Maybe you are tired of European cities.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s it,” Jake agreed. “I should come to Monterrey with you next year.”
“Yes, you should.”
“I like tacos,” Jake said with a smile.
“And the women…hmm. You can’t imagine.”
After a while longer, the friends took a short walk up the path toward the damn then decided to head to Oscar’s for dinner. The sun was just below the ridge, the clouds above it reflecting pink and orange hues, a perfect photo opportunity. And as the pair started toward the parking lot, a voice from the picnic table interrupted their conversation.
“Can I get a ride?” called the previously silent person.
“Huh?” asked Jake.
“Can I get a ride back into town? It’s not far. Just by the bottling plant,” inquired a female voice.
The friends turned to look at the woman, her baggie gray hoodie cinched tight around her face, her long dark hair pouring out each side. Her face was obscured. Jake paused and glanced over at Oscar. Oscar shrugged. Had Jake been alone, he would’ve declined the request.
“Sure. Just near the bottling plant.”
The shrouded woman quickly scooped up her belongings and walked toward the car. In the fading light, Jake noticed clothes, makeup, and charging cords poking out of the bags.
“You’re going to have to tell me where to go,” he said.
“Just head down Lake Boulevard and make a left by the Qwik Mart,” snapped the lady as she took a seat behind Oscar.
For the next five minutes the car was filled with awkward silence. They could hear her breathing heavily and anxiety washed over them from the back seat. Both men remained quiet. After the left at the gas station, Jake asked for the next turn. Right at the bottling plant, she replied. And after a right at the bottling plant, Jake suddenly recognized the neighborhood where they were, which calmed his nerves. Again he had to ask for directions. Right on Redwood. And after a right on Redwood, he asked once more. This pattern repeated itself until she asked Jake to slow down on Oakmont. In the dim twilight, Jake checked his mirror and watched the woman gaze out the back seat window at a gray and white single wide trailer. Then he shot a look over to Oscar who glanced back and shook his head side to side.
“Where to now?” Jake asked.
“Left on Maplecrest,” whispered the woman.
And from Maplecrest she told him to make a right on Redwood. And Jake knew if he did as instructed the road would take him back out of the neighborhood and away from the bottling plant. At the stop sign, Jake put the car in park.
“I’m not going to drive you around all night,” he told the back seat. “Tell me where you want to go and I’ll take you there but you need to give me an address.”
The woman let out a low sigh and mumbled “take me back to Oakmont” her hair still surrounding her face, bags clutched tight to her chest.
Jake looked to Oscar. Then Oscar raised his right hand, palm out, as if telling Jake to stop. Then he spoke up for the first time since they left the damn.
“Or” he offered in a high voice,“We could take you to the battered women’s shelter down town. I know the director. She’ll give you room for the night and help you get on your feet.” Jake nodded in affirmation. And both men turned to watch for any sign of agreement. And then, without a word, the back passenger door swung open and the hooded lady stepped out into the night, headed back down Maplecrest toward Oakmont.
Vol IV: #18 Busy, But Not Busy
I love a good YouTube video. That platform is packed with amazing people who creating great content. And it’s all free! How nuts is that? Every morning, I can choose the exact length and intensity of workout from thousands of yoga videos, compare recipes to try a new dish, and laugh. And yet, I feel this nipping pull in my mind because I know I’m wasting my time.
The phrase “I’m busy” has got to be the biggest load of shit in the 21st Century. We’re not busy, at least, not all the time. There are days and seasons when our calendars are packed and we long for the long slow days to come, but that’s not the norm. Think I’m being arrogant? Ok. Check your phone? Check your internet browser and Netflix watch histories? The data says we spend, on average, four to seven hours per day checking our phones, browsing the internet, and watching streaming content. Even if you’re on the low side, that’s still 28 hours every week. (That goes for mothers too.) And, I’m as guilty as anyone.
Fact is, I love a good YouTube video. That platform is packed with amazing people who creating great content. And it’s all free! How nuts is that? Every morning, I can choose the exact length and intensity of workout from thousands of yoga videos, compare recipes to try a new dish, and laugh. And yet, I feel this nipping pull in my mind because I know I’m wasting my time. It’s the same as when I was kid and sat in front of the TV for hours instead of study or read. Oh, if I could go back and tell that boy what to do and what not to do. Right at the top would be to “stop watching TV.” Then I’d thrust a book into my hands, something I’d like to read rather than the crap forced on us in school. Hopefully, I’d listen to myself… But, since I can’t reach back in time, I will look at myself today and ask what can you change today, Nik?
I know what I want to be. I want to be that guy that is so engrossed in the doing that I miss news events and can’t remember the last show I watched. I want to need a calendar and forget the names of my favorite YouTube channels. The big hurdle in all this is the habit and the tiniest bits of dopamine linked to the habit. We don’t check our phones and constantly refresh social media feeds because we have nothing better to do. No. It’s because we are addicted to the behavior. I love to learn and laugh and YouTube fills both needs. And though I try to lie to myself, I know the real reason I watched 20-30 videos a day is more about getting my fix than learning or laughing.
And you want to know something, I justify my phone time. I literally tell myself I need this. And the truth is, no, I do not. I’m ready to evolve*.
The last time I tried this, to limit my time watching stuff, I lasted three days. Perhaps my methods were at fault? I went cold turkey and I do not suggest it. The silence will eat you up. Instead, I’m going to try and find my way as I go. Then, after a few weeks, I’ll form an intentional plan. My aim is to limit my phone time to an hour or less per day and watch less than five YouTube videos per day (or 30 minutes total, which ever comes first.) If I can hit those numbers, I’ll give myself the gift of 30 additional hours per week. Crazy right? I’m looking forward to what comes from it. Hopefully, I’m truly busy.
*I’m not a Luddite. Far from it. The technology we have now is more than new tools and new ways to produce more food or clothes. What we have in our hands is the ability to numb out, to disconnect from our day and destiny, and waste as much time as our battery life allows.
Short: People You Meet In the Prayer Chapel: Connie
People You Meet In the Prayer Chapel: Connie. A short story about my assumptions and a warrior.
The first day I noticed Connie near the side window of the prayer chapel, she offended my sense of peace and quiet. She was flapping homemade flags into the air and dancing to the worship music as if it were a concert. This slim, black-haired, asian lady reminded me of the crazy charismatics I suffered as a teenager, the people who called each other out as demon possessed and hated long hair.
For months after, every time I passed Connie in the chapel was without nod or word of welcome. In part, it is my custom to keep to myself, preferring the stillness. But with Connie, it was more personal. And I’d leave when she’d enter the room, and maybe, occasionally circle the parking lot and drive back home if I noticed her car in the parking lot next to the chapel. The prayer chapel is not the place flag dance calisthenics, I’d fume.
Then, one warm summer morning, I felt a small hand on my elbow as I stood in line waiting to order coffee at Cuppy’s. I was a bit shocked to see Connie’s face smiling up at me as I turned to answer. “Hi, nice to see you outside the prayer chapel,” she said in a whisper. And I, having no reason to dismiss her polite approach, introduced myself and we began to chat. Within minutes, I knew I wanted to hear more of Connie’s story and invited her to sit with me. And over the next hour, Connie gave me the highlights of her life.
She was an orphan from Taiwan, raised in a Catholic orphanage. And she immigrated to the San Francisco in her early 20’s. That’s where she met Tom, her now estranged husband. He was also an immigrant, a man who’d swam from the mainland to Hong Kong before coming to the United States. Together they raised two boys, one about my age and another five years younger. Connie’s life in the orphanage was grueling but not as bad as the movies, as she put it. And age gave her better perspective on her former home, mostly that the education she received set her up to be succeed in America.
When I broached the subject of Tom, she looked away, then down at the cement floor beneath our feet. I felt tension pour from her and wondered if I should break the conversation by taking a toilet break. Connie began to pick at an imaginary spot on the rim of her coffee cup, then looked directly into my eyes with her dark powerful eyes. Something of scowl crossed her face. And I froze as a shiver ran across my shoulders.
“He is a atheist.” she said plainly. “Always a atheist.”
All I could do was nod as she continued.
“He’s been a good husband. No cheating or lying. But I raised our boys to love Jesus. And now, they don’t. He said ‘now you know how I felt all those years when you took them to church.’ And I said ‘how can you compare?’ You believe in nothing.”
What could I say? Both points of view made sense to the person who made it, though I sided with Connie.
“He moved out a few months ago, when I started coming to the prayer chapel every day. I told him I’m not giving up on my boys. I will pray for them everyday until they see Jesus,” stated in defiance as though Tom were seated beside me.
And then, for some dumb reason, I heard myself ask, “So why did he move out?”
“To punish me. He wants to gamble down at Fall River and fly to Taiwan all the time. I said I can’t go. I need to go to the prayer chapel.”
I held back tears. This is way she dances. She waging war. Once again, I heard myself speak when I knew it was better to remain quiet. “I’m sorry Connie.”
And in a way only someone of Chinese decent can pull off, she whipped her head at me and asked why are you sorry? Her tone was as defensive as it was demanding. I stammered out something about how tough it must be to watch her husband and children walk away from the Lord, but my words passed through her. Only then did I understand, she wasn’t seeking attention or pity. Awkwardly, I tried to shift the conversation.
A few moments later we parted on friendly terms. In my car, I broke down in tears for all the judgment I’d leveled her way, how I’d hated her dancing and flag waving. Now we wave to each other in the chapel, exchanging a few words every week or so. And when I see her start to hop and kick and flap her flags, I pray for her and her mission. I ask the Lord grant her strength to continue her mission, until all her boys are home.
Short: Cooler Than This
Cooler Than This, A 21st Century dating story.
“And then she said ‘I thought you were cooler than this.’ “ whimpered Paul through his hands while he held his face.
I shot a glance over at Dave who looked like a confused dog, his head tilted toward his left shoulder, his forehead furrowed in the middle.
“What does that mean? Cooler than what?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I guess she thinks I’m boring.” offered Paul.
My spine lengthened as I sat back in my chair, righteous indignation rising in my thoughts and four letter words on my tongue.
“What are you gonna do?” Dave continued.
“We agreed to have coffee on Thursday at The Roastery.”
Confused, I demanded to know why? Why would he see her again after all she’s put him through since December?
“Bobby told me to fight for her. So that’s what I’m gonna do,” answered Paul.
Hannah and Paul officially met at an ugly sweater Christmas party three months prior. She was petite, with curly shoulder length hair and a button nose though her small stature belied a deep voice and sarcastic tone. They were an odd couple from the start but Paul was desperate for a date. He’d surprised himself by asking her out only moments after meeting her. He preferred to wait until solidly in the friend zone, when defeat was certain, to ask a woman on a date. But he hit it off with Hannah and Bobby was there to encourage the invitation. That night, Paul buzzed into our shared double wide and regaled Dave and me with the good news. We celebrated his victory with beers and pelvic thrusts.
Within weeks of their first date, Paul got a new haircut that he styled just so. And a month later, he brought home shopping bags stuffed with new jeans, a black leather belt, snazzy wool sweaters, and a pair of Chuck Taylors. The makeover was complete. And I admit, he looked handsome in his new clothes and spiffy hair. Still, he didn’t seem to enjoy spending time with Hannah. And when she was invited to dinner at our place, she often made snide comments regarding our board games and stacks of books.
Then, just after Valentine’s Day, and just after Paul made a beautiful risotto with roast duck for the occasion, he came home from a date in tears. Hannah had berated his choice of restaurant. Apparently, cheap tacos and a beer is not a date she told him. In an effort to console Paul, Dave tried to remain diplomatic. I kept quiet. I knew, if I let my anger spill into my words and he ended up marrying this she-beast, I’d never live it down.
Damn it Bobby, I thought as Paul sobbed into his hands. That sonofabitch is never around to see the result. But, I knew. Now was not the time to blame Bobby for what Hannah said to Paul. She was the one who built up my friend in her mind then tore him down, tried to mold him in her own image.
Thankfully, Dave said what needed to be said- which allowed me to keep my peace.
“Ok. You do what you think you need to do. But, I just want to say, that’s not how she should talk to you. Right? You know that?” Dave spoke as lightly as he could, his right hand on Paul’s shoulder, his eyes level with Paul’s tearful eyes. Then Paul sat back in his seat and hung his head, his chin resting on his chest. Dave and I remained still and attentive, waiting for a response. We needed to know. We needed to see or hear Paul acknowledge he deserved more from a partner. And after a silent pause, Paul looked at us, his eyes shifting from my face then to Dave’s. Then he curled his upper lip inside the lower and slowly began to nod his head up and down, almost like a bobber in the water.
Vol IV: #17 I Laughed, And It Was Good
So…yesterday I sobbed like a child regarding my attempts to improve my drawing skills. (And maybe part of my process includes public self-embarrassment?) But, when I sat down to practice my shapes and go through my lesson, something awesome happened. I had fun. Yeah, exactly.
So…yesterday I sobbed like a child regarding my attempts to improve my drawing skills. (And maybe part of my process includes public self-embarrassment?) But, when I sat down to practice my shapes and go through my lesson, something awesome happened. I had fun. Yeah, exactly.
The project for the day was to draw three individual tee cups, each on a saucer. The goal was to explore different types of lines. And I started slowly, unsure of what to do. After, I finished my base drawing of general shapes and lines, I tapped my pencil on the pad, then began to draw quick horizontal lines. Within five minutes I began to laugh, and that’s when I felt a new feeling. This is fun, I thought. And, oh man, did I need that. On the second tea cup, I started with dots that became something more like vines or thick hairs. Not sure why anyone would want a creepy, hairy tea cup, but it made me laugh all the same. Then I decided to try and create a realistic tea cup and I labeled it “perfection.” It was awful and I laughed once more.
Invigorated, I finished the day by laying a foundation for a new landscape drawing, one of olives trees lining a path. The lines and shapes poured out of my pencil and I was found a good place to stop.
What a turn around. Can’t wait to get back at it today.
Short: Jake and Kara
Jake And Kara. A divorced couple with kids.
Jake glanced at his phone impatiently, then leaned forward over his steering wheel to get a better view of the storm clouds rushing his way. If the dumb bitch doesn’t get here soon, it’ll rain on the kids, he fumed. After another glance at his phone, the first fat drops began to splatter onto the roof and windshield of his truck before giving way to a full downpour. She’ll blame it on the rain, he concluded and he cracked a window to keep from fogging up. The storm dumped puddles and formed streams all over the McDonald’s parking lot. Jake had parked closer to the frontage road for this reason. His truck was soaked but clear of standing water. His boots would remain dry, and Kara couldn’t complain. And an hour after the agreed upon time, she pulled into the space across from Jake, the storm still at work. Jake stepped out the truck into the onslaught and Kara motioned to him and mouthed words. And she started as soon as he opened the passenger door.
“I’m not forcing the kids out in this. Just sit with us,” she snapped.
Jake thought about needling her over the lost hour but tried to keep it civil. He turned to his children in the back seat. Kyle, age six, and Mary Lee, age four smiled at him and Jake broke into a grin. “Really coming down, huh?” he said to the back seat. “I want ice cream,” Kyle said as he looked through the rain to the bright arches. “Me too,” chimed Mary Lee, playfully kicking her feet.
“Well damn Jake. Nice to see you too. You sober?” came a low hiss from the driver seat. Jake closed his eyes and then opened them on the driver, holding her gaze. Then a new grin appeared on his lips and with his eyes trained on Kara he asked, “How’s the arm Kyle?”
“Good. Doctor Simpkins says I’m better than ever.” replied his son.
“Good to hear Kyle. Glad you’re all healed up,” Jake smarted.
Kara turned her eyes to the rain pounding Jake’s truck, then let out a soft “jackass.”
While it’s true, Jake was not sober the night Kyle broke his arm, Kara was the one responsible for the accident. And Jake had yet to schedule a court date to bring this to the attention of Judge Bellancourt. Kara still believed Jake was taking his time. Had Jake been the parent responsible for the broken arm, she would’ve sued for sole custody, visitation up to her petty whims. Had she known he was tired of court and broke, she might have pushed her luck. Had she known it wasn’t alcohol, she would’ve made his life miserable.
After that night, Jake made new rules for himself. No weed when the kids are with me and none before they go to bed. Once they’re in bed, I can cut lose, he decided. On the day Kyle broke his arm, Jake had been high since his morning coffee. And when he arrived in the emergency room, he reeked of sour cannabis smoke and his eyes were so bloodshot. A nurse asked if he had pink eye. And though he was stoned, the question yanked Jake from his stupor into an all out panic. Under the guise of going for food, he made a quick dash to the TJ Maxx down the street from the hospital for a shirt and some deodorant.
That day at the hospital, Kara was wreck. Between hysteric sobs and whispers of regret, her heart spun out of control. And on top of feeling like a terrible mother and worried about the looming wrath of her ex-husband, she was drunk. Earlier in the day, Kara had polished off a bottle of chardonnay. Between baking brownies and watching her favorite reality show, she’d lost track of Kyle. He was upstairs playing cave explorer. And just about as she was about to check Instagram, a shriek pierced her spine and shot adrenaline through her veins. Without thinking, she’d bolted upstairs and scooped Kyle off his bedroom floor and raced back downstairs, all while asking what happened and trying to comfort her injured son.
Neither parent noticed the intoxication of the other in the Emergency Room but Kara’s mother did. And she waited until the the next day to scold Kara and tattle on Jake. “I don’t know what’s worse Kara Lee, you or him, or your son. We spent all that money get you married and then divorced. And this is how you parent?” chided Alice during one of many lectures that followed.
Jake’s phoned buzzed.
“Got a hot date?” Kara sniped. Jake let the phone continue to buzz until the call rolled to voice mail, then turned back to his children.
“What kind of ice cream do you want Mary Lee?” he asked his daughter.
“SWIRL!” she squeaked at an ear-piercing decibel, then began to dance in her car seat.
“Me too.” Added Kyle, still staring at the arches, the rain beginning to ease into a drizzle.
Silence filled the front seat, and the man with an ex-wife and two young children thought of ways to embarrass Kara, then pushed it out of his mind. For all the hurt and lies, what he wanted was peace. And a tension filled peace would do since no other would come. And she sensed his eyes on her cheek, a feeling once longed for now sent her into a rage. What right did he have to look at me? But she remained quiet.
“Alright, y’all. We ready to go?” Jake asked as the clouds turned from purple to gray, a few shafts of sunlight breaking through.
“Yeah!” yipped both kids in unison. And he opened his door to step outside.
A few moments later, Kara watched Jake drive up to the speaker box beside the menu board. This is my life she thought, then closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She dreaded the drive home, to her empty home. And then Jake pulled around the restaurant out of sight.
Vol IV: #16 Love To Draw
If I wanted to uproot my life, enroll in med school, and become a doctor, I believe I could do it. Or an engineer, the field doesn’t matter. Pick any mentally challenging, technical field, and I believe I could succeed. But, set me down with a stack of newsprint and a pencil and I fall apart. Seems absurd to think, more so to write and put into the world.
If I wanted to uproot my life, enroll in med school, and become a doctor, I believe I could do it. Or an engineer, the field doesn’t matter. Pick any mentally challenging, technical field, and I believe I could succeed. But, set me down with a stack of newsprint and a pencil and I fall apart. Seems absurd to think, more so to write and put into the world.
I’m sure some will mock my thoughts, Nik, have you even tried to learn organic chemistry? And didn’t you fail physics? Twice? While it’s true, my grades in the sciences are lackluster, I want to remind the jury I earned A’s in biology when I decided to try. Systems, even variable systems, are easy to understand. But to produce something new, to capture something unknown to the the universe, then create it, that’s my challenge.
You see, I feel like a failure because my drawings are shit. They are eight grade at best. And I struggle to keep from filling my trash bin. I know I’m being harsh on myself. I know I need to be patient, that the excellence will come from the doing, from making slight adjustments every day. But man, do I suck right now.
And if I give up or self-sabotage, I’ll have lost the battle to my enemies called self-pity and shame. But my friend Love says to be patient and kind. Endure. And more than these, tie your heart to hope. Forgive yourself, and move on.
Short: Saying Goodbye, Part 2.
Saying Goodbye, Part 2. My grandfather’s death ended up having a lasting effect on my prayer life.
We left four days later, under low snow-packed clouds. And the drive south was quiet, a result of tired bodies and minds. Even my sister was more quiet than her normal extroverted self. The snow turned to rain as we descended the the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia before clearing at the border of North and South Carolina. And dad was home when we pulled into the garage, shadows already long against the brick house. We were tired and somber, none more than our mother.
In the days after the trip, I thought about my grandpa and felt the emotional weight on our family. And having never engaged the practice much before, I prayed, with the preacher’s word in mind. We were good church going folks after all, washed in the blood of Jesus. Ask and you shall receive is what they said. So I asked and begged for a dying man’s life.
The odd part, one I was not trained to understand, was I heard a response to my prayers one afternoon at the kitchen table. “He’ll live another three decades,” an internal voice replied. I smiled as I did the math, my spirit lifted. That’s another 30 years. Grandpa was sick, but he wasn’t going to die, I was certain and went on with life.Three weeks after my encounter with the voice, we made another solemn trip north, and this time dad was with us. And the snow was gone, replaced by the bloom of spring.
In the years after, death and funerals became a common occurrence as grandparents, great grandparents, uncles, and friends began to pass. And I became numb to them, of crying and feeling any sort of sadness for the deceased. Death was part of life and I accepted him as I would a rainy day or flat tire, as an annoyance rather than intruder. In truth, my grandfather’s death didn’t bother me. The real damage happened just before. And years pasted before I recovered from that moment at the table and the promise I heard.
Vol IV: #15 43 Bits of Nikdom
A fun list of my wisdom. 43 years of it and counting.
I turned 43 on Tuesday. And when I called my parents for the perfunctory birthday chat , I told them of my desire to live another 80 years. And we laughed about the idea of me as an old crank, spinning stories about corded phones and three channels on the faux wooden box we called a TV. I admit, I love the idea of being shriveled and saggy and doling out unsolicited advice to all in earshot.
Given I plan to be old, I might as well start to dole out what I know, as practice for later. I’ve did something similar when I turned 40- you made read so here: 40 Year Old Wisdom- and want to make this post an annual post, every year around my birthday. Why not? It will be fun to compare what makes the list from year to year. When I turned 40, I was very much into healthy living with a particular focus on mental health. And I was long-winded. LOL. Today, you will read a list, intentionally more simple. Let go of pain as soon as possible. Anger and offense will not empower you or help you.
Love.
Eat well.
Act.
Sleep well, your day and body depend on it.
Exercise a little everyday. Your mind will thank you.
A good man is not without sin. A good man does not surrender to or justify his sins.
Nothing good is quick and nothing quick is good. Ask any woman.
Spend the money on durable and quality goods/services.
Cheap is the road to addiction.
Love people, not their opinions or views.
Give grace to everyone. No exceptions.
Boundaries are healthy.
As the Man said, let your yes be yes and no be no.
Work is good.
Everyone is an amateur when they begin. The champions and experts find reasons to keep going.
Learn to cook.
Learn to clean.
Learn to listen, without judgment.
Nothing good happens after 10 pm.
Children are children. They need rules, consequences, patience, and kindness.
Trust but verify.
Ask for exactly what you want, not what you think the other side can give.
God answers prayer, but not all of them.
Pray all day, everyday.
God is good.
God is loving and kind.
God knows who you are and what you need.
Our lives are a journey of finding our most authentic self.
Listen to good advice, but own your decisions.
Keep going.
Either talk about it and get over it. Or let it go. But don’t hold onto resentment. Resentment is a cancer to your soul.
Honor your mom and dad. They did the best they could.
Gratitude will guard your heart from hypocrisy and self-pity.
Learn to build yourself up rather than relying on the compliments of others.
Know your worth, it is inherent in your person, not what you do.
When the day is done, take time to recall what was good.
You are responsible for your actions.
Learn to have hard conversations devoid of anger or anxiety.
Be loyal, but don’t follow friends into the pit.
Save a little of every dollar you're given or earn.
Empower those around you to act for themselves.
Laugh as often as possible.
Learn both to relax in silence and work in chaos.
Vol IV: #14 Being Creative
This post took way too long to write. It was born of anxiety and sadness, but I like where I ended.
I’ve tried to write this post for over a f-cking hour and now I’m pissed. The only point I want to make is that some of my personal stories are more difficult to write than others. I experience old feelings I’d rather forget and it sucks. And then I feel guilty, like I did something wrong because I feel the way I do even though I’m not looking to be avenged. And I realize I wrote about this last week. But that was last week, when I wrote stories about people long out of my life. A more taxing story is one containing people still in my life, one way or another.
And maybe I should protect them. Who am I to be use my friends and families as props like a young mom uses her kids on TikTok? After all, when I step out of my anxiety and shed a rigid interpretation of “being honest,” that’s when I get to be creative. Isn’t that what good authors do- use personal experience and knowledge in universally creative ways?
I believe it is.
Short: Saying Goodbye, Part 1.
Saying Goodbye, Part 1. My grandfather’s death was the first death of a person I deeply loved.
Late on a cold February afternoon, my mother told us we’d be going to Pennsylvania to visit grandpa. He was sick and we need to go see him, she said plainly. I thought it was odd timing. Family visits to Pennsylvania were often announced far in advance and occurred during summer or winter breaks. This trip would require a few missed days of school, a welcome prospect to my nine year-old mind.
Early that Thursday morning, we rose early, packed our gray station wagon and started northward up Interstate 77. The road was dark and nearly empty save a few big trucks. The mood in the car was solemn and quiet. And I stretched my neck to gawk at the glittering Charlotte skyline as we passed uptown. A few minutes later, we were beyond the city and the lights, colorful fast food signs giving way to rolling pastures, then foothills rising into mountains. When the sun finally appeared, we were in West Virginia. And the snow mixed with salt and fumes and filth. I thought it was beautiful and preferred to watch it sail by as we motored up route 19. My older sister sat beside me and chattered away as my brother remained silent in the front seat beside our mother. Mom focused on the road, making half replies to the the onslaught of questions and observations made her daughter.
As we neared Grove City, a light snow fell from purple clouds. And finally we left the interstate for good, on our way to the powder blue farm house where my grandparents lived. A mile or so from the house, mom pulled off the road to have a word with my sister and me. “Grandpa is really sick, And I need you to be respectful. No yelling or screaming. No fighting. Understood?” We both nodded, and I believe we both understood, perhaps for the first time, this visit would be different. We weren’t on vacation. We were saying goodbye.
Grandma Lean greeted us on the side porch as the snow began to fall in heavy batches, slanting with the wind. Fido, an asshole of a dog, yipped and barked behind the storm door and high jumped to view the action. My brother bolted into the house first while the rest of us waddled through slick snow to the porch. Once inside, we peeled off layers of jackets and sweaters, and sat around the kitchen table for a spell.
“I didn’t think I’d see you for a few hours yet,” said grandma, which was as close to a compliment she could offer. From my seat, everything about the narrow farmhouse seemed as it always was. Despite being old as dirt, the house was warm and comfortable, especially in the kitchen next to the pot belly stove. The smell of bacon and coffee still lingering from breakfast. “The roads were clear and we missed all the traffic in Charlotte and around Pittsburgh,” mom answered. The reunion had all the hallmarks of normal visit, except for the noticeable absence of grandpa, asleep in his bedroom.
After being warned to be keep quiet, I decided to go play in the den until supper, and pushed my army trucks around on the navy blue shag carpet. Grandma was an excellent cook and we ate sautéed pork chops, lima beans and mashed potatoes. I hated lima beans but scarfed them down anyway. Grandma always made delicious deserts and I would not be held hostage by beans. After I cleared my plate, I patiently waited for the rest of the table to finish the meal. And soon enough, Grandma produced a mouth watering lemon meringue pie.
While we talked about school and finished desert, mom slipped away down the back hallway then reappeared a few minutes later. Her face was puffy, her nose red. “Alright y’all,” my mom ordered in her emerging southern accent, “Get ready for bed.”
* * *
The next few days were a bit of a blur as we shuffled from house to house, town to town, calling on expectant family members from both sides of the family. After the first few stops, each visit became a bit of a routine: the shedding of winter clothes, discussions about the weather, offers of food and coffee, and questions about school. Bombastic uncle Kurt asked me if I had a girlfriend. And when I answered no, he immediately asked if I intended to be an old bachelor. Had I been old enough I would’ve responded, “Not as long as you plan on being a sonofabitch.”
Eventually, each visit included conversations in low, adult tones, just out of ear shot of us kids. And my mother was more tense when visiting my dad’s family yet more at ease when with her sisters. As a nine year-old, I didn’t know or understand why certain dynamics exist or why they continue. I simply noted the difference and amended my behavior accordingly.
All these years later, I recall seeing my grandpa once the entire visit and only for a few minutes. A man I’d come to know as strong and deliberate was laid in his bed and suffering. The cancer left him frail, eating away the life left in him. He moaned a bit as my mother tried to talk to him. But I said nothing as I stared at the bed.
Of all my grandparents and extended family, Grandpa Lean didn’t treat me like a child or make the mistake of expecting me to act like a full grown man. He never asked me to do more than I could and translated confidence without words. And he expressed value for me by including me in his daily routine. We’d march through the snow to milk cows in the barn, dodged flapping hens to collect eggs, picked blackberries, and split wood. But, my favorite is when he’d let me sit on his lap while he drove from field to field on his red tractor. Occasionally, he let me stand between him and the big black steering wheel and I’d pretend to be the driver. I loved spending time with him. And I hate that my last memory of him, of dying on bed, is the last memory I have of my grandpa.
Vol IV: #13 This Drawing Stuff
When I was a kid in school, art class was my favorite class. Always. The art room was the most colorful room in the school and it was the only place where I could make a mess without incurring the wrath of an adult. In high school, I enrolled in as many art classes as possible (which helped inflate my GPA.) During those years I began to see my talent, particularly in sculpture/3D classes. I was never much of a drawer, but I could assemble random materials into something new and intriguing. I even won an award for best 3D sculpture in the district my junior year. That was 25 years ago.
A few years back I bought a handful of online drawing classes. And within the first thirty seconds, I could I tell it was money well spent. The instructor was an experienced teacher and began by demystifying the drawing process. He started by debunking the talent myth and plainly stated drawing is a skill. Anyone can learn a skill, talent isn’t part of the equation, he said. This simple approach set me at ease and gave me confidence in his teaching. And as of today, I have yet to progress beyond the first 10-12 lessons.
* * *
When I was a kid in school, art class was my favorite class. Always. The art room was the most colorful room in the school and it was the only place where I could make a mess without incurring the wrath of an adult. In high school, I enrolled in as many art classes as possible (which helped inflate my GPA.) During those years I began to see my talent, particularly in sculpture/3D classes. I was never much of a drawer, but I could assemble random materials into something new and intriguing. I even won an award for best 3D sculpture in the district my junior year. That was 25 years ago. But I continue to cling to that award as a reminder of what’s I can do, what’s possible, especially when I’m waist deep in anxiety and shame.
What I need is a process, because process is more important than location. Process is what grounds us, and the lack of it shows when we’re blown of course by life. I want to be like Paul, and I identify with his words: good times come and go, but I learned how to be in every season, for He is in me (Nik version.) I have a writing process, including goals and such.Why not have a similar structure and drawing?*
So, starting today, I will produce one drawing per day, six days per week, for the next 90 days. The year I spent writing was a real boost to where I am today and I believe a similar approach to drawing will yield hearty results.This is in addition to daily practice and the aforementioned lessons. Improvement is in the doing. After the 90 days, I’ll reassess where I am and set the next 90 days.
The real hurdle is going to be my mental approach to each day. All too often I allow myself to be discouraged at the results, as my inner critic slaps me squarely across the face. He’s a demonic asshole standing between me and my destiny. And it’s time to get past him. This one comes out by doing and persevering. The last bit here is to hold myself accountable which is why I’m blogging about my newest process. Be on the lookout for what comes.
*Drawing is the foundation of all art- even 3D art. Once I can sketch the sculptures I see in my mind on paper, I can work from those blueprints rather than try to recall what I saw in mind. It’s important.