The Descent

I think it must have taken a lot for him to come down. To wander out so aimlessly into the darkness. To measure each step so accurately, trusting eyes that barely knew how to see but needed to see depth. And the darkness. Existing in a world he was not at all familiar with. Without the ambient light he ascended with. Or was forced to close his eyes too. The world was much different than he remembered, if he remembered at all. But down he came.

I think he must’ve felt trapped. From where he was he could see the moon and the stars and faint blowing breeze dancing on the tops of the trees. Down here he must’ve felt trapped in his father’s house. Destined to walk a path that a hair’s breath on either side would have succumbed him to the unfettered and unsoothable pain of something as simple as a stubbed toe. Maybe it was a pain he was prepared for. But I contend that a pain you know is coming is far worse than one you get blindsided with because you can do nothing to stop it. The world down here: in a succulent darkness. But down he came.

I think of the timber of his heart. The courage to risk the fall to risk it all to descend and traverse and withstand what he feared most: knowing the absolute worst could happen. And whatever measure of choice brought him to the penultimate moment, to the riskiest risk in the darkiest darkness, I cannot imagine the courage it took for him to speak.

We did not hear him as he called out from right over our heads, loudly, screaming at us asleep in our darkness. What made him think we would hear him even if he stood in our very presence, knowing we were very much asleep. What kind of courage it takes to endure a descent into such darkness and yield such a little but bright colored word that can so powerfully awake us, is something you’ll need to ask him.

But last night, down Isaac came, from his new room upstairs to the foot of our bed before calling out in a final breath: “Momma”. It’s a journey I don’t think he was the first to make.

A Memory: Earl and Marge

It always fascinates me, the things that jog and stir memories. The catalysts that can launch us into the seemingly insignificant, yet vivid details of our pasts. I was just heating up some leftover orange chicken (with rice)...

The engineers were discussing a recent funeral for one of the workers' great and distant aunt. A woman who lived to 97. But in doing so had outlived the people who knew her. And as a result, the worker had to be a pallbearer at her funeral even though he barely knew her. For some reason that reminded me of Marjorie Blundell. Struck to life an occurent memory: I was a pallbearer at her funeral.

Marge was a tall, thin woman. She wore vintage horn-rimmed glasses and had jet black hair that flared out over her ears. Small eyes; a round, sharp face. I don't remember ever hearing her speak, and if she did, her voice was too soft, too frail and unsure to leave an impact. Marge just had an air of lightness and simpleness about her. She could've walk on top of a snow drift, if the wind didn't carry her over it.

Then there was her husband Earl. The church's janitor. A grumbling curmudgeon with a large face, weighed with jowls, had heavy, hunched shoulders, the type of walk that made you wonder how he got anywhere before the day expired. Earl mumbled, seemed always to be talking to himself about something. He was a simple man as well, a simple, short man with giant hands and a massive heart. He was could've been much younger than he seemed. But at the same time, the aspects of devotion and loyalty he showed to Marge and the church couldn't have been learned in a hundred lifetimes. I knew that then and I know it now.

I remember my dad telling me to always respect Earl. To help him carry bags of clothes to the back. To tear down tables and put them back up myself if I wanted to use the gym; or the gym needed to be set-up for church functions I needed to do it for Earl. And anytime I could help Earl, I needed to help Earl. Even though his temperament scared me as a teenager.

And from that memory came a haunting piece of Scripture. A verse my father told me Earl expressed to him when asked why he continued to work well past retirement. A verse that was his life's verse. One that made him happy and summed everything up about Earl. And I remembered that verse.

My heart, for the rest of the day, was reheated by those memories of Earl and Marjorie.

The Wrestler

There is always lots of laughter. Giggling, chuckling, a chortle. And he usually sets himself up across the room from me. I, on my hands and knees, growl, lower my shoulders, engage the enemy. He laughs some more. Puts his hand to his mouth and thinks. But only for instant. I am sure the tactics of Patton cross his mind. Some advanced mathematics perhaps. But it only takes him an instant before he moves forward. Before he is resolved to the fight, to the war, to the wrestle. Sometimes there are weapons. He will use his prized green blanket. Either it will be a cape or a whip. In the latter, picture the stylings of Linus imitating the Power Rangers. And there is laughter. Much, much laughter.

He is a cheater. A little bit of a cheapskate. He will jump on my back, usually by way of my fulcrumed shoulder. From there, he may bite me, right below my scapula. Right on a good piece of skin. It is his arrow. He is Bard and I am the Middle Earth dragon. And I will fall and roll. Throwing him off. Begin again. Subsequent times he will use his fingers, eye gouging, mouth pulling little fingers. The ones not holding the green blanket.

Wrestling is something boys and Dads do. Since time immemorial. Isaac has learned some strategies recently. And it's gotten to the point where it's a little more of a struggle. A little more of a wrestle before it descends into tickling and calling out to Mommy because someones bumped his head or been unfairly (whatever, he ran at me, I just lowered my shoulder and lifted him up) tackled and pinned beneath Daddy.

But there is always lots of laughter. And it is the most fun.

Now unlike a particular wrestling episode with my father, I've yet to break a bone in him. Yet to be forced into naming a place in the living room Peniel. Though I've more than once found it profoundly moving that God wrestled with man. Like a father and son. I know I complain more than often about unfair pinnings, lowered shoulders and have bitten much in my own time. And it is here I am most like my Isaac. Grossly out-manned, out-strengthened, out-maneuvered. Constantly relying on weapons. But each time I am pinned. And there is this great foolishness. This great silliness prevailing over those times. Like I could out-wrestle The Wrestler. Still it is something that must be done. Must needs be part of our relationship. And He presses me, but does not crush. And while laughter does not permeate the engagements, there is, by the end, this deep abiding Joy. A closeness with God. A Peniel.

Tell me, friend, can you ask for anything more?
Tell me can you ask for anything more?

Alternate Version: How Isaac Got That Nasty Cut On His Neck

We walked along as steadily as a toddler allows. The road giving way to speed in places, treachery in others where the rocks jutted and mud, well, did whatever it is that mud does. Clump? Either way, the going, for the most part, was not easy. The woods of Maine piled high pines and maples on either side of our hike towards the "Monkey Bridge". As slow going as it was, Isaac was relentless in his pursuit of other family members ahead, and the greenery growing just off the beaten path. More often than not, as if he sensed danger or intrigue in the woods, he would be caught several steps into the underbrush. His sense of bravery showed itself early in those moments. A harbinger of the hero he would become.

Suddenly, out of the bark and wood to the right 100 yards down the path came charging a bear. At this point, Isaac and I were leading the way. I had run ahead with him on my shoulders and was just returning his little legs to the uneven terrain when the bear approached at an alarming rate. My initial reaction was to run, to grab Isaac and run. Isaac's initial reaction was also to run. But like his approach to squirrels, birds and dogs, it was to run towards the oncoming animal. Run he did, matching in proportion only the throbbing speed of the bear.

His courage and legs were aligned as they propelled him magnificently to the beast. He added the hand gesture he had recently learned: pointing. All this together threw the creature into a tailspin and it ceased his steady approach. In fact, it was the bear that froze as Isaac neared. In an unexplainable way, I was unable to catch up to Isaac. Either fear leadened my legs, or his courage emboldened his and he remained out of my grasp, out of my reach, and his actions beyond my worst of nightmares.

He came within yards of the creature, who remained locked in its spot of mud and rock. He, as he had been taught, made the sound of a bear. It was not loud but it was sure. Like a child he knew he was looking at a bear and knew the sound of that bear, but knew not, like us adults, the menacing and imposing will of it. The bear cocked his head and growled low and broken. It backed up a step, as if to run or leap or attack or cower. Isaac growled confidently again, the sound carrying out past his pointed finger to the hairy ears. The bear cowered for sure, but not before he extended his paw and claw like his foe. Then, with a mere flick of its frame, it reached and scratched Isaac beneath his chin before bounding off back into the forest. Isaac pointed and growled some more bearing the scar of his courage with a child-like obliviousness. It was a bear to him. To us it was fear, danger, death, and sheer terror. To him, it was a bear.

It is a three inch long laceration. A flesh wound only. But in the incision courage seeps out.

***This did not actually happen. True, we went on a hike in Maine over the weekend to the "Monkey Bridge" (a mere two steel cables over a creek) and we did walk through forests with the "threat" of bears (?). But we did not see any. Did not see any tracks or hear any noises resembling that of any creature (although Nate thinks he was tracking a deer). Isaac actually did cut his neck though. But it happened when he fell in a field of flowers -- wild flowers -- but flowers nonetheless.***

My Dentist: A Character Sketch

Short. Hovering around 5 feet tall. Salt and pepper hair. Thin. Early 50s. Small hands and eyes. Impeccably ironed scrubs with turtlenecks on underneath. Dark, thick black glasses with a device that gives her singular, zoomed-in vision attached. When she looks at you, she tilts her head down, not up and therefore cannot avoid looking through the device. Anecdotes and thoughts are only complete in her head, yet they make sense if you listen carefully and casually. She is a woman of many details but wastes no time with them. Her humor is simple, straightforward, but has to be thought about to be found funny. It must be placed directly back against the gait and posture and tone of this woman. She is passionate about her job, loves dentistry. Leads well, her employees speak openly of their frustration with her antics and her personality and incomplete complete thoughts illustrating a lack of fear towards her meaning she's a good boss. And she's very good at what she does. Honest with her patients, genuine as well. She's also a little crazy and it comes through in the pitch of her voice, in its pace and delivery which feels a hair too fast and high for most conversation.

I hate the dentist office. Despise anything that involves cleaning the mouth: brushing teeth, flossing. I cannot be in the same room with another person who is brushing their teeth. Cringing doesn't surmise the physical reaction I have. I cannot brush Isaac's three teeth. I cannot watch a movie where someone is brushing their teeth. I simply cannot. But I like going to this dentist. She is a character I find infinitely interesting. A case study.

Watching people more efficiently is a task I've sought to do more of of late. And there are some strikingly different and overwhelmingly fascinating characters at work in this world around us. From the man with the golden voice who works at the gas station to the woman slowly and distractedly making my sandwich. Asking why another person is doing as they do and watching, trying to figure out why it is so, is a new thing for me. But I find we are all mostly alike in some ways and vastly different in others. We are all characters.

Bob Dylan: How Does It Feel To Win A Pulitzer?

So perhaps you've seen the news: Bob Dylan received a special nod from the Pulitzer Prize committee. It's the first time the award has been given to a rock musician. As I read online yesterday, this is interesting given the anti-establishment bend of the genre. It's supposed to be revolting against these high class honors and what they mean. But truthfully, there is no one in the industry more deserving of the literary merit. No one else who's body of work can be considered with the great writers. Dylan is a great writer. Despite what you may think of his voice (the Mrs can't stomach it). Despite what you may think of his music. Dylan is and was lyrically the best. On par with the prosody of the best.

Now there are other musicians who's body of work could be considered deserving of the award. Neil Young comes to mind. But most notably is Bruce Springsteen. The Nebraska album alone is a lyrical collection of short stories. Tom Joad is another astonishing musical panoply of short fiction. If Dylan, I say, then Springsteen.

Anyone else I'm missing?

Three Of A Kind

The expression is that it always happens in threes. That, especially, people die in threes. Over the past week, this has been the case in the sports realm with the Blue Jays pitcher Kennedy, Sean Taylor and the first black All-American Bill Wilts. Working in news, I much more prone to mark these stories and see the correlation -- though, I think it may be merely coincidence. Sure it doesn't always happen, but it does more than you think and probably doesn't more than you think too.

But what about people being born in threes. I've got this inkling that November 29th was a favored day in heaven. On this date, C.S. Lewis, Louisa May Alcott and Madeline L'Engle were birthed. That's a lot of genius to be giving out at once, even for God. And a lot of genius in the imagination of children's literature too. It's like it wasn't given out all at once. All of them, most known for the work as a children's author with the ability to transcend the genre to appeal across generations at once.

It was like literature won the lottery that day. Or that there was an overstock, one-day sale on genius. Maybe it's Christmas on November 29th in Heaven. Or would they have Christmas?

Either way, today's greatness happens in threes.

UPDATE:

NOVEMBER 30TH: BIRTHDAYS OF MARK TWAIN AND JONATHAN SWIFT (GULLIVER'S TRAVELS). SERIOUSLY... MAYBE I'M THE ONLY ONE FASCINATED BY THIS.

UPDATE:

PROBABLY.

The Modern Prometheus

If you're familiar with the stuff of myth, the stuff of fantastic stories and tales, perhaps you'd be acquainted with the ancients conception of how fire was brought to man. Prometheus concealed the conflagration in his cloak, thieved from the heavens, and bestowed it to man. Interesting to note in this story that fire was the stuff of heaven. That it is not man's, not originally present on earth to the Greeks. I mean, there are no stories of a man named Chuck thieving water in the folds of his shirt, or Larry holding air in his wallet as he crept out of heaven. It's fire that's the stuff of heaven. God made the bush burn, not rain, when he chose to speak to Moses. Fire is the stuff of heaven.

So there are the 2007 Red Sox. A team that stands on the doorstep of Olympus today. The sights are beautiful. Fire burns from every building. Several people roam the streets consumed by it. Others toss it back and forth on the streets of Olympus. The Red Sox must now get in, steal it (free Tacos for all too!) and bring it to us fans. It is no small task. It has been no small feat for them to get to even the doorstep. Climbing the mountain this season, they have emerged a victor. A modern Prometheus. I'm sure there was a reason mankind elected Prometheus and not a man named Bobo to commit holy larceny. The Red Sox are Prometheus. The Rockies are clearly Bobo.

Yes, I'm aware of the parallels in this idea. That the Rockies play on a mountain. But mostly I am intent on expressing to you, that on this crisp October morning that the idea of a World Series win resembling the bringing of fire to man is most apt. It is. Seriously. Cold October. Warm fire. I'm not stretching anything here. I'm not...

Tonight, We Steal the Fire of the gods.

We Win The World Series.

Residents of Mudville

So that's how I feel today. Like a resident of some imaginary town in a children's poem.

"Upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat"

But with Beckett going tomorrow night...

"A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast"

For when the dust lifts....

Some Bathroom Reading

One week from today the Mrs., myself and Isaac will be the possessors of our new home. Needless to say it's been a stress-filled, yet exciting time for us. Between closing on a house and planning for the move into a home much larger than our current residence, we have been busy. Thankfully, our new home provides me with that needed respite. That longed for and welcomed moment of the day when no one wants to be around you and you won't no one around. Where it is just you and your thoughts. And sometimes some reading material.

A friend of mine has a book that provides summaries of all the greatest novels. Each books' summary can be read, well, in one sitting. The sports page is also common reading. My new home has something of the former adorning its walls. The previous owner, who gets major points for being clever here while having them deducted because of the location of the hot-tub filled gazebo, decided to paste pages of exceptional authors' works on the walls. All within plain sight. All easy to read. It's a rather ingenious idea, to post authors like Faulkner, Spinoza, Shakespeare, Bacon, Whitman, et al on the walls. And suddenly, these walls can talk.
I'm not sure where I'll start. On which wall. But I know I'll look forward to those chances I'll get to, well, sit and think. I'm just not sure how to reference them in footnotes on my graduate papers.

On Santa Claus

With our child's first Christmas upcoming next year, the Mrs. and I have been talking very much about the tale of Santa Claus and how we will celebrate Christmas with our kids. A little background: she grew up without the incorporation of Santa Claus; I did grow up setting milk and cookies out and getting presents labeled "from Santa".

It is her belief that it is unnecessary and mars the true meaning of the holiday. I concede the latter argument, but not quite the former. She would rather us not give our kids presents from Santa Claus and not spin the yarn with them. Originally her argument stemmed around the foolishness of convincing kids to believe in it and, more importantly, parents lying kids. She doesn't argue along those lines anymore, but they were solid reasons to not incorporate Santa. And I had a lot of trouble arguing my way around the whole "lying to your kids" reasoning. Please don't see my Mrs. as a Scrooge of any sort. There would still be presents under the tree and Christmas would still be very much celebrated in the normal fashion, just without the focus being Santa Claus.

I grew up with Santa Claus incorporated in our Christmas celebration. I grew up every Christmas morning, waking up early, getting the folks out of bed, waiting at the top of the stairs while Dad got the video camera ready and fed the anxiety by taking his time, and then rushing down stairs to see the living room filled with presents. We would then see that Santa had eaten the cookies we left out and left us a scribbled note, a type-written note, or even a video of Mr. Claus playing a computer game (props to Dad for getting a Santa suit that year).

Now I'm older and you would think I've grown out of these rather child-like traditions. However, I recently convinced my family to wait until the Mrs. and I arrive a few days after Christmas and then do the whole wake-up early in the morning thing (of course, now I hear my sister wants to salsa dance and this might not happen. Seriously, who salsa dances during the holidays). So I haven't outgrown it and would like to "pass on the tradition" with my kids. And here's my argument for it.

I concede that the whole Santa thing has gotten out of hand and distracts greatly from the reason for the season. But, in the proper context, it can be a lot of fun. For instance, parents often play make-believe with their kids. From cowboys to pirates to tea parties, these scenes from books and movies and tv are quite often acted out at the imagination of the child -- something the parent loves to foster. So, can't the tale of Santa Claus be done in the same way and still keep the true meaning of Christmas intact? I think so. I think that acting out the "Night Before Christmas" would be a fun thing to do -- using the book as a guide: hanging the stockings with care, leaving food out, seeing the presents in the morning -- all that stuff.

Now as for the whole deluding your child argument. Well, from my memories, when I played cowboys and indians and re-enacted scenes from The Natural, I wished with all my heart it would be real and poured that desire into my acting. But I knew at the end of the day it was just my imagination -- but I still had a lot of fun trying to make it as real as possible. The same could be applied to how my kids then react to the acting out of the poem.

I think then that you are just fostering your child's imagination and, also, keeping your own intact.

Plus, I really want to say: You gotta get up, you gotta get up, you gotta get up, it's Christmas Morning.