This fleeting sadness and guilt is always accompanied by the strong desire to hide away and take shelter.  In those moments when the total weight of my life’s sin feels stacked upon my head like a column I want  nothing more than to be with my family, away from everything and everybody.  To take my wife and my kids and go and shelter in the amazing sense of safety and peace I feel when we’re together as a unit.  When faced with these moments, nothing could be more soothing or restorative.

I occasionally think this is how I’ve learned to cope with feelings I otherwise have trained myself to overlook.  Like pulling Band Aid off all at once or something.

My father is dying.

He has a type of blood cancer and the doctors don’t think he’ll live much longer.  We’ve known for a while but I don’t write anymore so I’ve not written about it.  The disease is playing out pretty much as expected.

Last year I helped move my parents from Oregon to our old house, while we bought a new one only a few miles away.  We found out about the cancer just after they’d settled-in.  I honestly think this was God’s plan.  Early on I used to think about how nice it would be for us to have my folks close, but in the end I think it was we who are meant to be there for them.

Mostly dad is just very tired.  Happily, we’re able to spend plenty of time together.  We barbecued in a park just a few weeks ago.  Since our time together is fairly normal, it’s easy to think that things aren’t really all that different.  I don’t think I’m deluded, but it is easy.  I’ve committed myself to sharing as much time together as we can and we’re doing that, but often I think I’m still unprepared.

Back to those moments of distilled repent I opened with, perhaps my pointed way of dealing with heaps of unrealized consequence.  I have this sense that I’m beginning to process the eventual loss of my father in the same way.  In certain moments lately I find myself in pointed crushes of loss and sadness.  Fleeting, but raw and strong.  I feel suddenly awash in some fondness of memory, some wish for more time that’s not even yet expired.

And I cry.  Which I don’t do.  I did today, on the plane, watching Life of Pi when Richard Parker walked unceremoniously into the jungle.  I did a few weeks ago sitting at home on the couch.  Then Sharaun was next to me and she did her best to comfort me.  I thought I could see just a bit of surprise on her face, her realization, I think, that however OK I act about things this will hurt.  She did, though, comfort me.

I  know she’ll be there.  So will Keaton in her perfect way and Cohen in his perfect own.  My brother and his wife, my mom, all of us.  The family balm.  Come whatever, I gain strength from them and take great comfort in knowing they are a life raft in rough seas.

Until later then.

There are things I miss about it, mostly the archival nature of old posts (and mostly not the self-indulgent soliloquy that I look back on with growing embarrassment).  I feel bad that one day down the road I'll be able to look up posts like this one to help me recall when Keaton's verbal skills were turning from words into rudimentary sentences but won't have a complimentary post to help me remember when Cohen began doing the same.  (For the record, Keaton was 19mos when I wrote that and Cohen is now 18mos... he's got quite a few words but isn't quite idea-stringing like she was.)  Anyway I think I'll miss being able to look things up in that sort of "index" to the past I had when I used to write every day.

I also miss the "release" of writing.  It was a great break from the tension of the day.  I've become bad at this, releasing tension.

I've atrophied; become bad at drawing every last bit of joy from each day and instead become focused on "point happenings" in the future.  My brain says, "Just four more weeks of work and then we'll have that weekend camping trip.  Then it's another month and I'll take that week off when Sharaun's folks are in town. Oh, and, won't next Thursday night's happy hour be a nice break... only a week or so more of this."  There was a time when I was better at this, I stopped.  Lately I'm doing better.  Striving to  re-establish good habits.  Put the computer away at night.  Read at least one chapter to Keaton.  Spend at least 20min on the floor with Cohen.  Pull the bike out at least once a week and get around.

I fear that, looking at time stretched-out in front of me like a series of anticipated events dropped thin along a linear timeline of "must do" humdrum, I'll miss the good stuff that happens every day.  We must be deliberate.  Must remember that the magic that is now is gone tomorrow and if I miss that game of Chutes & Ladders with Keaton tonight I might miss it forever.  We must be selfless.  My work-time can and should happen at work.  I must be diligent and keep it there.  Must be involved.  Television doesn't count towards together.

Gonna make it better guys.  Gonna work on this sort of thing before I get down to "writing" on the priorities list.

Peace.

That I labor over decisions, both big and small.  That I'm meticulous and make well-counselled decisions.

In something approaching 50% of the time, though, I think I operate more on impulse.  This tends to be OK, as I trust myself in most matters.  Deliberate, impulsive, these are things I'm used to both striving for an being, respectively.  One thing I'm not, or at least up until recently have not been, accustomed to is calling.  A decision calling to me is something than an impulsive one.  Impulse is fleeting; I didn't buy those new $150 earbuds even though I liked them and seem to collect such technical doodads - better judgement, nay, deliberate decision-making, intervened.  A calling, on the other hand, does not fleet.

When there's this feeling... in your chest or somewhere approximate.  It's a nagging thing, isn't it?  Even tainted around the edges to make you feel like not doing it is somehow wrong.  A calling, being willed from the inside or some outside force, as near physical a thing as a pinprick.  I was called to do the RV trip, did you know that?  I don't say it, but I felt like we were supposed to do that; meant to bond and explore.  Yeah sure, you're thinking that I'm likely also "called" to my daily bowel movements, that I'm some crystals and auras new-age type getting messages from the Pleiades.  I'm not; as much as one can impartially judge themselves as such a one.  I knew that trip was the right thing to do, while on it everything felt right, and looking back at it there's no denying the overall correctness of it.  It was a calling I chose to heed.

Is "calling" even the right word?  Not sure.  When someone chooses the seminary, what's that... a calling?  A desire?  How do you tell the difference.  In my life, I also desired (greatly) that past summer's trip.  Called, or wanted?  Maybe it's the persistence of the feeling that leads me to want to dub something a calling versus a desire.  I desire a steak, medium rare, salt and pepper only.  I'm called on a journey.  What does one do, then, when one feels some compelling urge to do something seemingly irrational... like a drastic career and scenery change?

Why do I daydream about teaching middle-school math in upstate New York?  What is that kind of fantasy.  I even see the town in my head, all Bedford Falls and Mayberry.  My kids know your kids and your wife and mine are in the same PTA meetings and church committees.  I don't work until 10pm.  I don't work until 11pm.  I don't work until midnight.  I don't think about work in the shower.  I don't think about work on the weekend.  My fucking till balance at the end of my grocery-checker shift doesn't weigh on my shoulders like an anchor.  My paycheck loses decimal places.  Our saving stalls.  I wouldn't be able to do things like that RV trip I was "called" to; I'd have to pass-up the calling because I couldn't afford it.  Right?  Little devil on the right, little angel on the left.  Warring.

I can't even write one-minded about it and I'm just manic-depressive enough about it to where it'll likely never happen.  There is this part of me that wants it like an ideal, though.  To get closer to my family, my God, my planet, the things I like about myself and the things I feel my time is best spent on.  Why waste it working until 10pm, 11pm, midnight?  Why waste it rebalancing my 401k?  Why sow or reap or store away in barns?  Why labor or spin?  How long can I keep pretending to seriously ask myself these questions before I give up and admit I'm too scared or convince the family to take the first steps with me?  I'm not serious, surely.

Self-indulgent catharsis.  Feel better.  More coming at a later time.  Thanks for reading.

His first purposeful unaided steps happened at my parents' place the day before Thanksgiving.  Maybe three or four little tentative ones, which I luckily captured on video below, not something really aimed at mobility... more testing the nets.  Even now, spending Christmas in Florida at the other parents' house (no, not a divorce thing, happy to say Sharaun and I are the product of two long-married couples), he's just finally getting to the point where he's doing more walking than crawling.

His steps are still fairly straight-legged and deliberate, he ends up on his rear a lot, and he's mostly walking between two things he can grab onto and cruise around - but with each passing day I see him take more steps and appear more coordinated.  It's actually pretty fascinating to watch and I'm thankful that it's happening when I'm not at work all day and would miss the subtlety.  I still clap and cheer for him in my high-pitched "good job little kid" voice, I hope he doesn't find it patronizing... his enthusiasm would seem to indicate he does not, unless he's far more sophisticated at cloaking his emotions for my sake than I give him credit towards.

I took him down to the park today, where Keaton and I went yesterday, and watched in awe as he behaved almost the polar opposite of Keaton at the same age.  I set him down and he climbed the green-rubber coated stairs of the play structure, crawled right over to the slide where he situated himself and pushed off.  The first time I guided him with a helping hand, but after he'd walked around to the stairs again and get himself poised for a second go, I let him do it solo.  He loved it, slid on his belly right to the end, scooted himself off and onto his feet and toddled over to do it again.

Anyway, below are his first little steps that day in Oregon.  I love that little boy.

Not too far from the in-laws' place, the walk there is an enjoyable one flanked on the right by the Indian River and the left by a row of riverside houses which are always fun to ogle and envy.  The weather was inviting, too, and is part of the reason I proposed the trip.  We'd walk down to the little park (the same park where the Santa incident occurred three years ago), kick rocks on the playground a bit and then stroll through the gentrified shopfronts and maybe get some stocking-stuffers for mom.

On the way down Keaton was being Keaton.  "The wind feels so refreshing in my hair, dad," she said as she tossed her (somewhat tangled) locks.  "You know, I think I was meant to live in Florida.  Do you think we could live in Florida sometime?"  "Meant to live in Florida?," I asked, "What do you mean?"  She explained that, since both mom and I were from Florida that it was like she was supposed to live here.  The concept of destiny may be above her, but that's pretty much what she was describing.  I told Sharaun's mom about the conversation and she was encouraged.

We picked flowers and dodged fire-ants (currently Keaton's #1 fear in the sunshine state) and even made a stop at the local magic store to nose around.  And once again this morning Sharaun's left me with the kids to go shopping (her perpetual pre-Christmas Florida activity, not that it bothers me - being that it relieves me of having to do the same), so I'm thinking we might make a return-trip but this time with Cohen in tow.

Until later then.

Our trip out was disastrous.  We woke at 3am to catch a 6am flight out of California, and that flight was delayed by all manner of things for over an hour (with us sitting in our seats on-board).  This resulted in a missed-connection at Denver and the airline auto-re-booking us on a 6pm flight later that day.  Not wanting to spend eight hours in the airport with two kids, we tried standby on a couple earlier flights with no luck.  Eight long hours later, as 6pm finally rolled around, turns out that outbound aircraft had issues.  Another hour and a half and a new plane later we were finally on our way.  We pulled into the driveway here at 2:30am Florida time, nearly twenty-one hours of travel time after our west-coast departure.  Poor Cohen didn't sleep the entire time, stubborn little man that he is, and was wrecked for our entire first day here.

But now we are here, and all the Christmas presents I had shipped from Amazon were here before us, and the sweet tea is plentiful and family's already come 'round to play... it promises to be a good time.  I'm trying to stay away from work as much as possible, but have so far checked email daily like a sucker.

I'm looking forward to some un-scheduled time.  No having to be somewhere at this time or meet someone at that time.

Oh and maybe some writing if the inspiration strikes.  Bye.

These days, the ones where you work twelve or thirteen hours, these days are going to pay off.  OK maybe not in dollars.  Or maybe not in respect or position or stature, either.  OK what then?  Self-respect?  Don't think so.  Personal satisfaction; yeah that's got to be it.  Some Eagle Scout sense of selfless fulfillment.  Maybe if it was thirteen hours in a soup kitchen.  Thirteen hours, a daily 1/100,000th of a hundredth of a dollar change in stock price.  OK so yeah it's not all toil and not a scrap of enjoyment.  The chase; the race; the smugness of high performance.

More and more I want to steal some time back and writing gives me that.  If I'm sitting here writing I'm not working or thinking about work.  More: I've been wanting to write.  I get home and I think about what I might write.  I email one-line ideas to myself when I'm on the go.  Motivation is a strange thing.  Did you know that during the "break" this year, the one I may or may not still be on, I let the ten year anniversary of this blog pass silently by?  Earlier in the year I had big plans for that September date... was going to do some big self-indulgent "look back" kind of feature... go all out.  Alas, it came and went unnoticed whilst I wasn't writing.

Like I said, thought to day about how I wanted to write tonight; wrote tonight.  To me that's good.

We're off, traveling again for weeks running, this weekend.  Away from work for a while.  Look for me.

Goodnight.

Last week I took Keaton up to her school to watch the third-through-fifth grade spelling bee.  Not just some rinky-dink thing, this was an "official" Scripps Howard rules bee, complete with fee paid to the aforementioned governing body to both use their rules and qualify winners for advancement to the state and national level (you know, the one they show on ESPN2?).  She wasn't in the spelling bee, mind you, they don't let the K-through-2 kids participate, but she had been talking about the thing so much that I decided we'd do a daddy-daughter date night centered around it.  Nevermind that, once getting there, the glam and seduction of the spelling bee seemed to dissipate quickly under the reality of the event and she was complaining of being "bored" within the first half-hour, for that's not where this story is going.

We were talking about "emotions by proxy," recall?  What I came here to remark on was the sense of pride I found myself feeling watching children who weren't even my own.  Pride that these kids were getting the words right, pride in the way they handled being on stage and mic'd in front of a crowd of adults, pride at their aplomb even after misspelling and having to leave the stage.  Proud-by-proxy; it happens, at least to me.  That fourth-grade kid named Pinder, the tall slender one who just spelled "dramaturgical," a word I'd never even heard, that kid's smile and triumphant walk back to his seat after the judge's "correct" was almost enough to bring tears to my eyes.

Is that odd?  I get it too sometimes when I see a local kid sing the national anthem in their hometown before a pro ballgame.  For real.

Backing up a bit, he was in the (bad) habit of putting food in his nose and ears a few weeks back.  The phase came and went quickly, waxing and seemingly waning away to zero within the span of a couple weeks.  We thought we were past it, thought it was just a funny bit of growing up kid-stuff.  Until lunch today, when he got one pushed up just high enough that it's only partially visible with a flashlight at the right angle.  Sharaun, in fact, was only somewhat sure there even was a pea up there until I got home from work and was able to confirm it by restraining the poor little man while I peered down his nose.

So, I consulted the internet for medical help.  There's plenty of help out there for foreign objects in nose, even specifically peas for that matter - but most of it seems to assume that the pea is completely blocking airway in the offending nostril and as such relies air pressure (sucking, blowing, sneezing, etc.) to dislodge it.  Cohen's pea, though, isn't completely blocking his nostril.  He can breathe right around it so suction or blowing simply moves air past the not-going-anywhere pea.

Poor little guy just doesn't get why mom and dad have him pinned-down to the bed, holding his arms and legs and shining a bright light into his face.  To him it's torture.

Sharaun's on the phone with the doctor now.  Poor Cohen got too tired of me sticking the suction bulb in his nose or blowing through his mouth or having pepper shoved at him in an effort to invoke a sneeze and just dropped into bed.  He's sleeping peacefully and we don't plan on waking him to deal further with the pea problem.  But to be safe we wanted to make and vet our executive parental decision with an actual M.D.  I don't think even the doctor will be able to convince me that waiting hours in the emergency room or urgent care is the better than an early morning pediatrician appointment, anyway.

Goodnight friends.

Upon seeing this shiny place ringed by desert again, I didn't expect to have such a strong emotional reaction.  Maybe the jetlag contributed, but being here again after this summer's RV trip, for only the second time in my life, just smashed down on me and almost made my eyes water.  It's not like I'm remembering something that happened twenty years ago, either - we were here back in July.  I think it's a testament to just how impactful that trip was on me.

Maybe I didn't realize exactly how broadly the journey effected me, and to some extent maybe I'm still settling back into things and coming off that road-high.  Writing might be one example of this.  I know in my head that at some point I'm going to call this sounds familiar dead-time "the big gap."  That I've already named it for future writing means I'm getting closer.  More telling still are the ideas for entries that have been jumping into my head again; on plane flights, in taxis, on the soccer field, the shower; the usual places.

It could be that I haven't seen my family in two weeks, and won't for another few days before we meet again in Portland.  Missing them and being here, a place where, even if we didn't really have the best time in the world, I was last together with them on this wild transforming journey, surely plays a part.  I miss my family.

So I don't know... but I'm going to go out and walk the strip a bit (after a shower to wash the full day's travel off me) and see if I can catch further nostalgia.

Until later then.