The perks of working as writers / researchers / night-class teachers: yesterday, as Tyler was in pre-school in the morning, Jennifer and I rode our bikes to the Starbucks in town, ordered two coffees, lugged backpacks heavy with books up the stairs to two comfy chairs whereby we look out the window, and also at one another.
Our goal was reading--Jen for research purposes, me for novel purposes. But soon into a few sips of our coffees, we both sensed that our outing would be more one of those delve-deep-and-reflect missions than accomplishing much reading. (But hey, later that night, Jen would be elbow deep in research and I would be teaching a Public Speaking class, so we gave ourselves the leeway to let the momentum carry us where it would.)
It also happened to be our eight-year anniversary of when we first became engaged. I had proposed on the rocks of Bearskin Neck, Massachusetts right outside of My Place by the Sea restaurant (where we dined after Jen had said yes, and a bus-tour of senior citizens from Texas had clapped heartily to celebrate with us). So it felt particularly appropriate for us to have one of those conversations where inspiration sparks inspiration sparks inspiration, and love just kind of hangs out all around.
The floods that swelled from the River Ouse here in York only a week ago had dissipated, leaving the bike trail along the river free and open. So we rode it, then rode the caffeine of the coffee, then rode the words and meanings and messages of the conversation. And I'm still thankful, thankful, thankful, that my bride said yes eight years ago.
After our conversation, we did actually do a little "work." And during that space of literary-focused time, I wrote the following poem:
Acceptance
We walk, and should our shoes scuff silence
Shame balloons and we cling
To its strings.
Higher, higher we rise
In condensating skies until we
Can view every mistake we ever made.
From that vantage point (as the
Strings stretch the skin of our hands
So tight we bleed)
We learn--nor know--nothing.
Should we sink back down to
Where the divine is always married
To reality, we find
Space for silence, and words for shame
So that it cannot rule our lives again.
Showing posts with label Acceptance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Acceptance. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
The What If Quest
Today, Tyler and I made our first trek beyond a one-mile radius of Lesley Avenue since we've been back in England--and the journey was peppered with the newest question his Frontal Lobes have learned to employ: What If?
Quest is a playground/park/shallow-brown-river-filled-with-47-ducks/field about two miles from our house. I'm actually not even sure that it's actually called Quest, except that word stands boldly out in the middle of the playground in letters that are bubbly and set against a rock wall.
En route to Quest, Tyler wanted to walk rather than ride in his stroller. After twenty minutes to make it five-hundred feet, I began attempting various ploys to try and get Tyler into his stroller.
Daddy: Your stroller is ready to go fast, WITH YOU IN IT!
Tyler: What if my stroller goes fast WITHOUT ME IN IT?
Daddy: Then your stroller would be WAY UP THERE and you and I would be WAY BACK HERE.
Silence for contemplative time.
Tyler: Daddy, What if I was that truck driving right there?
Daddy: If you were that truck driving right there, you would be zooming down the road, away from right here.
Silence for more contemplation.
We saunter ahead another five feet, until Tyler spots a series of rocks all embedded into the side of the sidewalk.
Tyler: Daddy, what if we could pull all of these rocks out of here?
Daddy: Then there would be no more rocks there, and the people who designed this sidewalk said, WHOA, THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL WITH ALL OF THESE ROCKS RIGHT HERE.
Contemplation time. We saunter ahead two more feet.
And an inner voice bubbled up inside of me, suggesting, You're never going to make it the two miles to Quest at this pace! Move! MOVE NOW OR GIVE UP ON QUEST ALTOGETHER!
I contemplated this inner voice as Tyler gazed back at those embedded rocks, probably wondering what the people who put them there were really thinking.
The inner voice I'd just heard didn't sound very peaceful; it didn't sound very calm; in fact, it sounded downright unquesty, and if were were on a quest for Quest, another voice suggested the following: Shouldn't you attempt a more questy approach to today's journey?
Fast forward one hour: we still have yet to arrive at Quest, but our journey thus far has afforded Tyler and I ample time to consider more What Ifs than I'd previously thought possible to articulate in a single walk:
By the time we arrived at Quest, my inner voice had turned questy. Highly questy. And after a picnic on the grass (food prepared lovingly by Mommy, complete with two love notes for Tyler and I--of which Tyler held his super-tight the rest of the day, (as did I)), a couple of hours on the swings and play equipment, we finally made it to the small river where 47 ducks darted in search of bread.
Seriously, they darted. I had previously assumed ducks waded here and there--but these ducks darted everywhere. Tyler tossed chunks of bread into the water, and then called the ducks boldly to come and get it (though they needed no encouragement).
Befitting a day of what-iffing, Tyler looked up at me as the ducks became arrows, and asked, "Daddy, what if we went in there and swam with all of those ducks?"
I laughed in a questy kind of way. And it dawned on me then that all of these what ifs had nothing to do with goals or results or desires. In fact, they were totally void of ambition. Which is vastly unlike the what-if questions I often find myself posing--wondering about what vocations might work out, what opportunities will present themselves, how finances will unfold.
But, truth be told, the kinds of what-ifs I normally ask aren't very questy at all. Rationality and aspiration often trump imagination and randonimity. And sometimes, this is a good thing. In fact, it's probably what classifies me as an adult.
But the balance can become skewed, and when this happens the questiness goes of out life, out of the very endeavors that most crave that kind of imaginative attitude.
Today's quest with Tyler showed me that it's possible for neither to trump the other: stuff can get done--places can be reached--in a questy manner that is peppered with What Ifs as long as we're content to watch things unfold slowly, watch events and experiences occur less in the light of lightning, more in the glow of lightning bugs.
Quest is a playground/park/shallow-brown-river-filled-with-47-ducks/field about two miles from our house. I'm actually not even sure that it's actually called Quest, except that word stands boldly out in the middle of the playground in letters that are bubbly and set against a rock wall.
En route to Quest, Tyler wanted to walk rather than ride in his stroller. After twenty minutes to make it five-hundred feet, I began attempting various ploys to try and get Tyler into his stroller.
Daddy: Your stroller is ready to go fast, WITH YOU IN IT!
Tyler: What if my stroller goes fast WITHOUT ME IN IT?
Daddy: Then your stroller would be WAY UP THERE and you and I would be WAY BACK HERE.
Silence for contemplative time.
Tyler: Daddy, What if I was that truck driving right there?
Daddy: If you were that truck driving right there, you would be zooming down the road, away from right here.
Silence for more contemplation.
We saunter ahead another five feet, until Tyler spots a series of rocks all embedded into the side of the sidewalk.
Tyler: Daddy, what if we could pull all of these rocks out of here?
Daddy: Then there would be no more rocks there, and the people who designed this sidewalk said, WHOA, THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL WITH ALL OF THESE ROCKS RIGHT HERE.
Contemplation time. We saunter ahead two more feet.
And an inner voice bubbled up inside of me, suggesting, You're never going to make it the two miles to Quest at this pace! Move! MOVE NOW OR GIVE UP ON QUEST ALTOGETHER!
I contemplated this inner voice as Tyler gazed back at those embedded rocks, probably wondering what the people who put them there were really thinking.
The inner voice I'd just heard didn't sound very peaceful; it didn't sound very calm; in fact, it sounded downright unquesty, and if were were on a quest for Quest, another voice suggested the following: Shouldn't you attempt a more questy approach to today's journey?
Fast forward one hour: we still have yet to arrive at Quest, but our journey thus far has afforded Tyler and I ample time to consider more What Ifs than I'd previously thought possible to articulate in a single walk:
- What if that man was a woman?
- What if a digger tried to pick us both up, Daddy?
- What if this airplane [toy airplane] was really a REAL airplane?
- What if I had wheels on my feet and my feet were not feet, but they were just wheels that did like vrrooooommmmshh?
- What if Quest was that place right THERE [Tyler points at run-down, neon-lit Cash Advance Loan Store Front]?
- What if I was the REAL Spiderman?
By the time we arrived at Quest, my inner voice had turned questy. Highly questy. And after a picnic on the grass (food prepared lovingly by Mommy, complete with two love notes for Tyler and I--of which Tyler held his super-tight the rest of the day, (as did I)), a couple of hours on the swings and play equipment, we finally made it to the small river where 47 ducks darted in search of bread.
Seriously, they darted. I had previously assumed ducks waded here and there--but these ducks darted everywhere. Tyler tossed chunks of bread into the water, and then called the ducks boldly to come and get it (though they needed no encouragement).
Befitting a day of what-iffing, Tyler looked up at me as the ducks became arrows, and asked, "Daddy, what if we went in there and swam with all of those ducks?"
I laughed in a questy kind of way. And it dawned on me then that all of these what ifs had nothing to do with goals or results or desires. In fact, they were totally void of ambition. Which is vastly unlike the what-if questions I often find myself posing--wondering about what vocations might work out, what opportunities will present themselves, how finances will unfold.
But, truth be told, the kinds of what-ifs I normally ask aren't very questy at all. Rationality and aspiration often trump imagination and randonimity. And sometimes, this is a good thing. In fact, it's probably what classifies me as an adult.
But the balance can become skewed, and when this happens the questiness goes of out life, out of the very endeavors that most crave that kind of imaginative attitude.
Today's quest with Tyler showed me that it's possible for neither to trump the other: stuff can get done--places can be reached--in a questy manner that is peppered with What Ifs as long as we're content to watch things unfold slowly, watch events and experiences occur less in the light of lightning, more in the glow of lightning bugs.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Gratitude for Puddles
Going on Day Seventeen of a Ten Day Forecast for Extensive, Hard, Seldom-Ceasing Rain--and today: I love it. Even though I've watched Jennifer tuck her jeans into her boots ("wellies") quite a few times, today was the first time I actually tried it myself and with Tyler. Our plan: a stop at the Lollipop store and then a jaunt to the little Fulford Library. But the rain, relentless as a dog who has to urinate, wouldn't let up. So I realized that it was high time Tyler and I got with the jeans-tucking-in program.
And--who knew!?--it really is an incredibly effective program. I stuffed the ends of my jeans into my black, given-for-free-from-a-neighbor wellies, and helped Tyler stuff his jeans into his newly-bought-pink-strawberry wellies (self chosen, and yes: Jen and I are totally loving the fact that he loves pink boots.)
En route to the lollipop store (where lollipops make up actually only about 4% of Val's little corner shop) Tyler and I manged to find every single puddle that lay between us and our destination. No puddle could escape our masterful gaze. Nor was any puddle too deep, too shallow, too muddy, too clear, or too wormy for our cataplutative leaps.
I am going to run through this one super fast, Daddy, watch me do it LOADS of times! Tyler's roars escape from a visage that knows a few drops may even reach its height. But the Tuck In Jeans Program protects Tyler like a miracle, and the pink boots are the recipient of about 96% of the splashed water.
My turn Tyler-Man! Here's comes Daaaaddddyyyyy! My shouts aren't feigned or exaggerated to help enhance his joy. They're actually an authentic part of my own joy at the newly accepted Tuck In Jeans Program.
When we finally get a lollipop from Val and end up at Fulford Library, we're dry. We are remarkably, miraculously, and can't-touch-it-like-Ryan-Gosling's-smile dry. We choose 16 picture books--including the perennial favorite The Pink Bicycle by Gill Lobel--and load them into my backpack.
En route home, we embody the Tuck In Jeans Program with glee. It's becoming a part of us--thanks to the tutelage of my wife and the glory of Rain. After seventeen days, I finally find myself looking up at the sky, waiting--no, hoping--for more puddles tomorrow.
And--who knew!?--it really is an incredibly effective program. I stuffed the ends of my jeans into my black, given-for-free-from-a-neighbor wellies, and helped Tyler stuff his jeans into his newly-bought-pink-strawberry wellies (self chosen, and yes: Jen and I are totally loving the fact that he loves pink boots.)
En route to the lollipop store (where lollipops make up actually only about 4% of Val's little corner shop) Tyler and I manged to find every single puddle that lay between us and our destination. No puddle could escape our masterful gaze. Nor was any puddle too deep, too shallow, too muddy, too clear, or too wormy for our cataplutative leaps.
I am going to run through this one super fast, Daddy, watch me do it LOADS of times! Tyler's roars escape from a visage that knows a few drops may even reach its height. But the Tuck In Jeans Program protects Tyler like a miracle, and the pink boots are the recipient of about 96% of the splashed water.
My turn Tyler-Man! Here's comes Daaaaddddyyyyy! My shouts aren't feigned or exaggerated to help enhance his joy. They're actually an authentic part of my own joy at the newly accepted Tuck In Jeans Program.
When we finally get a lollipop from Val and end up at Fulford Library, we're dry. We are remarkably, miraculously, and can't-touch-it-like-Ryan-Gosling's-smile dry. We choose 16 picture books--including the perennial favorite The Pink Bicycle by Gill Lobel--and load them into my backpack.
En route home, we embody the Tuck In Jeans Program with glee. It's becoming a part of us--thanks to the tutelage of my wife and the glory of Rain. After seventeen days, I finally find myself looking up at the sky, waiting--no, hoping--for more puddles tomorrow.
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