Whit Honea, The Poet Revealed

You may not see a hat that says "Poet" on his head. You may not see her in a long black dress or with flowers in her hair. You may not see him in a cloistered classroom, in a tie and hard shoes. You may not see her words in a beautifully crafted book of verse or in a fancy literary magazine. You may not see him garrisoned away in a tower of ivory, quill in hand, nor in a Starbucks nose-deep in a laptop.

But, you do see them. Everyday. You will recognize them by the wrinkles around their eyes, the slight smile on their lips, the easy ear with which they listen, the light touch of their hand on your hand, the dream that hangs over them, the hope that rolls over you when you meet. They are essential to you and you, you are why they are who they are.

They are the poets.

I know one. His name is Whit and I don't know that he would ever call himself a poet, like that matters, but, he speaks to my heart as only a poet can. Poetry is not the words, but the place between them. It is not the metaphor or the imagery or the message or device - it is where those elements hit you.

The Parents' Phrase Book: Hundreds of Easy, Useful Phrases, Scripts, and Techniques for Every Situation is all it says it is... and more. In it Whit Honea offers advice, with humor and tenderness, on a wide range of topics relating to the everyday dealings we all have with our children.

I just sighed and shrugged my shoulders, I don't know how to get to what I want to tell you about Whit's book. It's wonderful and clever, to be sure. It is helpful and decent and good-hearted. My copy is dog-eared and marked up and stuffed with folded pages and notes because I knew I wanted to tell you about it, but, but...

In a simple, beautifully sculpted story called "The Stars upon Thars" he tells me about a boy who collects stars for other kids in a classroom so they will have some on their own charts. He writes this to end the quiet two-page story, "Stars may be given, taken, or thrown away, and they may twinkle, shoot, or fall, but when stretched forever by small, warm hands, they shine bright on all of us. His smile did that, too."

It is not a story to tell you how to be a parent, it is a story to remind you that you were once a child. I wondered if this were really the place he was coming from with all of this. Underneath all the great advice, between the well thought lines, behind the straight talk and beside the tenderly crafted stories, was he gently reminding me that to be a great dad I should simply remember that I was once a boy? I was thinking maybe it was. I am glad for that.

I had occasion to have a brief chat with Whit on the innerwebs a couple of days ago. We crossed paths in a cyber hallway and we had a nice conversation about him and his book.

I wrote: I really have enjoyed it.  Besides being a great resource, I find great poetry in it and also, somehow, a nostalgia for my own past.  It reminds me that I was a kid once.

Whit answered: I was just typing that! I really wanted parents to remember what it was like when they were kids. The publisher wanted a book on how to talk to kids, but my theory is we already speak kid, we just forgot it along the way.

Me: Yes, an empathy for childhood which somewhere became exhausted but is rekindled in you... why?

Whit: I think this is my midlife crisis. Other guys need models and sports cars, I need innocence and wonder.

Me: Damn, that's nice. I "need innocence and wonder" as well. Nicely put.

Whit: I thought you might.

Me: Well, obviously, I am working on a writeup about your book. Remembering childhood through the door you opened for me was the angle I was planning on... for now.

Whit: Honestly, I didn't write the book for parents, or I should say "only" parents. I wrote it for anyone that has been a child and has an ounce of hope for a better tomorrow. Corny as hell, I know, but that's what I really hoped for, was that people would try to understand and respect each other more while also learning to better value themselves.

I went on a bit more about how much I enjoyed the poetry in his book and his website, The Honea Express, and I asked him a little about himself and his hippie sensibilities.

Whit:  Ha. I'm 43, and I grew up in a rural, Harper Lee-ish sort of town, but with more shag carpet. I didn't embrace my inner liberal until college. I didn't even know I had one, but the Beatles collection and late night poetry should have been a clue.

We spoke of other things, kids and editing and mowing and writing and wisdom and waffles. I was struck by his gentleness, humor and grace. We follow each other on the web and I know his life has been sad at times, and I know he has known great joy. He is a dear father to two beautiful sons and a loving husband who seems to understand love in his very soul. What more could you ask for in a poet?

A little later, as we were finishing up, I said: You are wise before your time Whit, that is a very beautiful character trait, hard-fought, I know, but it serves you well. My very best to you and your fine family. Peace.

Whit:  Ha! Thank you, Bill. And thank you for that last bit about the character trait being hard-fought, it really is a bloody, winding path isn't it?

Me:  Yes it is, less taken, slinged and arrowed, and beautiful and hopeful, long and winding.  Yes.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

Whit:  And there's the closing to your post.

I wrote this not to hawk Whit's book.  It would make a great Father's Day gift, to be sure, but, I can't say that is why I did this.  His book is a great guide for parents, but, it is so much more. He is so much more. No, more than anything I wanted him to know that he spoke to me, he touched me, he made me look inward.  He turned his life, his wisdom, his experience, his love and his hope into something I needed to hear, needed to know.  He made me better.

Yes, what more could you ask for in a poet?

Go visit Whit at his blog, The HoneaExpress. (Honea rhymes with pony.)  And, you can purchase his book on Amazon here.

Thanks for stopping by today. There are so many voices in the world - the songwriters, the bloggers, the essayists, the memoirists and diarists, the waitress, the cashier, the homeless man, the CEO, everyone really - listen to them, listen for the poetry that surrounds you in the Spirit Wind that blows through us all.

Tough Summer Break, Revisited

It is Thursday and many in the digital community re-post or re-share or... whatever, things they've done before.  I've never much liked the idea so, it seemed showy to me.  However, I realized that there are folks coming around these days who have not been visiting me for very long, so, I figured I would give them a look at something new to them.

I decided to rerun a piece from either one or two years ago as close to today's date as possible.  Today I will take a look back at this piece.

***

Some of you may have noticed that, periodically,  I have trouble getting things started around here.  Often I can't decide what tone to take or which thing to begin with - happy or serious - or which picture I'll use or, well, you get it.

Today it's a no-brainer:

Yeah, that's Nick' wrist. Broken, two bones just above his wrist.

I wonder what you'd write about now, whoever you are, whenever you are?

Would you write about, oh, say, medical technologies?  All about the instant x-rays now available hospital- and network-wide.  When I was a kid I got an x-ray once, waited like two hours for it to be developed and then was told by a pretty pissed off tech that I had moved and that we'd have to start again.  Would you tell how the casts have changed so drastically, although the resetting of a displaced couple of bones hasn't changed much since, well, the Middle Ages?  So many colors of casts available, two if you'd like.  How soon he'll be in a waterproof cast, as oxymoronic as that might seem to anyone over fifty.

Maybe you would write, cleverly holding in your own pain, about how you knew the wrist was broken.  How it wasn't a question of whether to go to the hospital but to which hospital.  Would you mention the "S" shape his wrist was in and how you physically wince every time it flashes through your memory?  Would you mention the guilt boiling over inside you because you are the one who told them they could play on the shed and who leaned the palette up against the shed wall so carelessly, recklessly, stupidly?

Would you focus on the twin brother, his bravery and his empathy and his goodness as he thought to get a couple of stuffed animals to Nick for the ride from one hospital to the next?  His plea for "Bear-Bear" as you rode to the hospital in the first place and how it hurt you nearly as much as his brother's broken wrist. You might go on and on about the twinship they have, the love they so take for granted, the love we all so long for from siblings but don't always get.  You could describe the stuffed animal improvs they are having in their beds before bedtime since the accident, recently an aardvark with a broken snout speaking with a kindly buffalo doctor  as she explained procedures with simple care and decisiveness.  The tender sweetness of the dialogue which brought tears to your eyes, would you mention that?

Or, you might make a reference to time and jokingly say you didn't have time to finish this and then perhaps lament your lack of time to do the things you want to do and that the summer is coming and you may not continue posting and then... an image of a little boy who wouldn't wake up in the emergency room might hit you, a fear never before experienced, and you'd realize how petty and non-sensical are your worries and your wants compared to a black and orange cast and no bike rides.

On the up side, you might remember that even the boy-in-the-cast mentioned that it could have been a lot worse because he "almost busted my head on the fire pit, too."  You would, perhaps, show this picture and wait for the laugh, to cut the tension and stop the tears as they run down your face onto the desk below you:

You might spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to go on from here.  Would you, maybe, vamp a bit about how irritated he was because people kept asking if it was for the Cincinnati Bengals, a team he has seen maybe four minutes playing in his entire life?  How his dear mother made him a Loveland "L" to go on it?  Would you banter a little about how he doesn't like to tell the story of the shed and the fall and all that?  How it is not clear exactly what happened out there, out of sight, behind the shed.  Would you mention how much that scares you?  Would you distract from that painful thought by mentioning the playful, wry look he gets on his face as he points to the "I Fell."

Would you speak of the human spirit, bravery, the mysteries of anatomy and pain and stress and humor?  Would you marvel at the kindness of strangers, caring doctors, loving grandparents, child care specialists and surgeons eager, willing and courageous enough to pull and bend and sweat to put a little boys arm bones back into the right place?

Would you have the moral fortitude to recall the faces of the parents in the waiting rooms and hallways of the E.R?  Ashen, sick children; stunned parents holding infants, scared and anxiously awaiting "the news" as some happy Disney show droned on.  Or would you choose to try and forget that side irony and go on with your own story, silently remembering that your heart said a prayer for them as you looked them in the eye and smiled?

You might write of many other things as well, but, what will I write about?


Broken hearts.

Broken hopes.

Broken dreams.


You see, although I think we all tell our kids that life isn't fair and that bad stuff happens, we forget that we are going to be the ones who have to explain it when it does.

It seems daily that Nick realizes yet another thing he won't be able to do and it breaks his heart, again.  Of course this all happened Memorial Day and, just two days later, he said to me, "Oh, Dad, I'd had such hopes for this summer."

And my heart broke.  I can't make this not be.  I can't make an accident "unhappen" as he once suggested.  I'd take the broken arm, what parent wouldn't?  I will do everything I can to hasten his healing but, he has to wait.  He can't draw pictures.  He can't jump.  He can't climb.  He can't ride.  He can't run.

In his mind, he can't be a kid.

We all know this is coming, we parents and makers of men; we all know they will suffer the unfairnesses that life so brutally and arbitrarily throws our way.  We get that.  However, watching an eight year-old boy work through it in his head is very difficult.  The other night he was watching something in my lap and his little face got all scrunched up and he sobbed a little and I asked him what was wrong.

"I can't even kick a ball."

I cried with him, cursing God and the unfairness of it all.  I held his face against mine as our tears fell together and I tried to protect him, but... I couldn't.

Send a 'hope' up for Nick, any way you like.

Thanks, oh and ... 


From Marci's "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat ..."

"This smells of turmoil."

It does indeed ...

***

I am glad I chose this today.  It's funny how much things change in a year.  Something that seemed so impossibly difficult and scary and insurmountable was worked through, and, here we are, ready for another summer.

Thanks for taking a fresh look at this, or for looking at it for the first time.  I like this piece and am proud to be the father of two great sons.

That Telling Moment

I guess any moment fully examined will show you its secrets. I watch and think and ponder over the boys far more than I would care to admit. That seems funny really, I was once an extraordinarily selfish person... oh, it wasn't as bad as all that, I just had a pretty high opinion of myself, still do I'd say.

So, if say, I look back on this long day at the incredibly crowded pool, and wish I could recount the comings and goings of dozens of boys and girls, mingling and playing and learning and sometimes hurting and alone. I look back and realize the complexity of it and I step away. I fold the memory up and slap it in my brain and file it away haphazardly, never, probably, to see it again... unless I need it.

I think about the span of this their third year of elementary school, the boys I saw off that first day cannot be these same two gangly, cheerful, openhearted, well, man-cubs. You can see the men they are to become just under the skin. You can see their minds grasping deeper meanings and wondering more difficult thoughts, growing, hardening, like the muscles of their long legs and backs. It is not my story to tell, I feel. It is mine to watch and consider but it is not mine to tell... unless I need to.

I see them both making faces into the mirror when they think no one is watching. Mean faces, silly faces, a single eyebrow arched, a perfect monkey face. I think about how essential that is, I relate it back to me and am afraid to think about it too hard. Childhood is weird and confounding and damnably difficult at times. The complexity of meaning and import that goes along with a boy making faces in a mirror is more than my heart can bear... unless I need to.

But I want to, I want to share a moment, two really, that, selfishly, I want to remember. But each is wrapped in the longer story that is my story, your story, Nick's story, Zack's story.

It happened in a baseball game. Zack was in center-field and a pretty good hit was arching his way, to his right and coming down fast. He ran toward it and slid open-gloved to snag it. We practice these over and over in the back yard, he loves sliding on his knees, it's a catch he's made dozens of times... he missed it.

A little later, I am fairly certain the bottom of the same inning, Nick fouled two down the first base line, barely missing the ump once - he apologized profusely - and then smacked one over the head of the fielder in center. Some classic cartoon bumbling and an overthrow found him rounding second and the third base coach was sending him home. He slid, the throw was late and... he hit an in-the-park home-run. No one saw that coming.

Two moments - the agony of defeat and the thrill of victory - in one inning, two brothers and two beaming, heartbroken parents.

Here's what else happened, what else I learned, they learned, we learned... there's more to every story which is why every moment has a story to tell.

After the game, Zack was upset. I wasn't sure if it was the mishandled catch or the fact that his brother got a serious hit. I asked him, my heart told me it was the catch. It was. He knew he should have snagged that ball.

"We've practiced those over and over Dad. I should have caught it."

 A lesson, a hard lesson, one of life's toughest - sometimes things just don't work out. Sometimes practice doesn't make perfect. Sometimes we fail, blatantly, obviously, fail. A lesson in humility that feeds the lesson of persistence that feeds the notion of self that reaches out, across the space between us, and sees the heart in front of us.  He will remember this missed catch when he sees someone else miss theirs, when he sees another struggle, when he sees an unfairness that cannot be changed, he'll remember this missed catch.

I asked him if he was upset about the home-run and he said, "Oh no, I'm glad he got it, it's just that, if only, I just wish I..." and he trailed off, his voice breaking, with a look of curious resolve. He'd accepted the lesson and the memory and had made it his own. A moment, brief, fleeting... telling.

Nick was proud of himself, he enjoyed the boys running out to smother him at home. It is rare to see jubilation as the one who invoked it. It is a nice feeling, and he let it sink in. Marci went to give him a hug and she said he was beaming. I went over to see him and he was happy, that glowing, barely contained joy that children so often express. They seem to quiver and hover. They are brighter, shinier from within. You can hear the dancing heart.

"Good job, Nick," I say quietly, looking him in the eye. He knows I am proud of him.

He bursts into a smile, wipes it away with a twinkle in his eye and says, "Well, looks like I'm outta my slump."

I know what he doing, it's exactly what I'd do, he's deflecting. The joy and attention are almost too much for him, he has it now, the moment, the memory and he needs to go on. He knows he can get back to it later - joy deferred, distilled, spread out over time, is still great joy.

Later, just before bed, Zack was brushing his teeth and Nick and I were alone at the table. I smile and say, "Dude, a home run?"

He doesn't really smile but his eyes do, just there, around the corners, as his mind caresses the moment. He gets serious though and says, quietly but with emotion, "Dad, it's over." And it is, for now. I doubt he said anything to his teachers, maybe he told a few friends, he's not said anything else about it in my presence.

Sometimes these boys are bigger men than I - that's the truth.


I while back Zack made a popup baseball field.  It's pretty nice:

And Nick made a nice campfire one:

I don't know, I just wanted a couple of images.  You know how I roll...


From Marci's "...things you don't expect to hear form the backseat..."

N:  Dad you are my minion.

Dad:  No, I don't want to be.

N:  Well, you are.


I feel more like a house-elf...


Thanks for thinking of me and stopping by. See you again soon.

When The Bough Breaks (or Godspeed, Sweet Poetess)

Twin maples stand some thirty feet apart back maybe twenty feet or so from our house.  I've mentioned them before.

I love them.

It is a great fear of mine that they will someday crumple under a heavy Spring snow or run out of room and light to flourish.  The boys have grown up under them, sheltered in their cool shade, swinging from one branch, pulling at another.

They have seen the starkness of black, late evening shadows thrown down by their branches on a blanket of purple snow.

They have laughed as silly, perplexing, inexplicably perfect little light green helicopters rained down as they tried to catch them in their toddler hands.

They have thrown and kicked and danced and screamed and broken bones and scraped and grass-stained knees under their sweet yellow, red, green, brown caring leaves.  These two trees are nurturers, to be sure.

So why then, when I looked out the kitchen window one morning a while back, was I annoyed when I saw that the one on the right had lost a great branch?  Why didn't I scream out for that tree, rushing to her aid immediately, when I saw what the overnight storm had done?  Why didn't I tremble at the wind that could produce such violence or marvel at the resilience of the tree brave enough to lose a limb and soldier triumphantly on?

Well, because there was a giant-ass limb hanging precariously from a tree in our yard I'm lazy, mostly.  I saw work and time and danger and and hassle.  I saw it as a problem, a burden, a drag.

Here is what the boys saw:

A branch fort underneath the "climbing tree."  As quickly as I could cut off the branches with my tired loppers, they scurried the pieces away, beaver-like, awkwardly dragging them and wrestling them into place and making a small spot for themselves under the familiar leaves.

I'd forgotten.  Forgotten my boyhood.  Forgotten my manhood.  Forgotten that it is all one long, frequently interrupted, childhood.  Forgotten that I am a child and that broken branches are a gift, broken branches are forever, leaned against a tree, made into a shelter, woven into a memory.

A couple of mornings later I went out to clean it all up.  The leaves were no longer vibrant and they drooped and sighed against each other.  This time I remembered, I listened to my own childness and made a collection of sticks and pretend swords and who-knows-what with my handsaw and loppers:

There are three long poles that simply thrilled them there at the top.  I also let them go through the pile to find their own branch and cut it per their instructions:

Nick's is on the left, a hand tool and weapon; Zack's is more a bow or staff.

Believe me, as summer continues, these sticks will vex both me and my tractor.  Should I curse them as I get off the tractor to move them, or should I walk the yard before I mow, calling to them from my own childhood, calling them to come play, calling them to be a part of the one memory, our collective memory - our infinite, essential childhood?

***

A poetess died today. But that is impossible because a poem never dies. We have lost a powerful and devoted voice of hope, yes, but that voice will sing on inspiring and teaching for generation to come.

Maya Angelou has died and for the first time in my memory I can see nothing else but the “angel” in her name.

I could never list the names of the all the writers who have inspired me over the years, shaped my voice, and made me expect more from the words I use and read, but if I did, her name would be in gold. I looked up a bibliography for her and realized I had read nearly all her beautiful books. I do not recall ever seeking them out but, they found me, as great words will, seeking a place where they could nurture me.

Whenever I heard her read I thought how proud the words seemed to be included, how she savored them all, and how, together, they went beyond their meaning, transcendent. I am sad for words today, they must be also mourning their beautiful caring champion.

So where to go now, right now. I believe I'll go on with what I had already planned. I could write on poetry for days and never make a point or I could simply say goodbye and Godspeed sweet poet, your journey has brightened mine and helped me to see it more clearly and deeply.

We are all telling the same story, I fiercely believe that.  My boys tell me that story.  Maya Angelou will always be telling that story.  I will continue to, and, I will listen as you tell it.

An exploding can that was fortunately not in Marci's backseat:

It was a hulluva mess, but, really, I didn't mind.  The boys thought it was "hilarious" and, honestly, so did I...

As always, I thank you for coming around my way again.  There's a lot to think about in this life, I appreciate you thinking along with me here on my journey.

A Prayer Out Of Nowhere

I wrote a prayer and I don't know what to do with it.  Isn't that weird?  I wrote it sort of for a friend and I wrote it to God and I think I wrote it for the boys to stumble upon someday, hopefully when their journey becomes as confused and convoluted as mine.  I tried to show it to you a while back in a post called On Purpose but I wasn't allowed to.

May I Call You?

Some call you Earth Mother or Universal Love. The Energy or The Source. You are water and fire and wind; you are stone and ice and stillness. You are the quiet between atoms; You are the majesty of thunder. You are pain and suffering; despair and hopelessness.

You are Everything. You are. That is too much for me. Forgive me.

May I call You Father?

May I use a simple truth I know to shape You for me? I understand the love

a father has for his children. Not because I have children, not because I was a son.

No. It is in a deeper place.

There is a place in our very souls upon which is etched, burned, blistered, the primal

need for our fathers. The need to know we came from good. To know, beyond measure,

that we are beloved.

You worried our souls with that, burdened us with the unflinching, unblemished love for

fathers so we would remember You. We honor You because You honor us.

May I call You, Father?

*

A spider swings in the Wind that fuels a fire that sparks a mind that thinks of you. A baby

screams in the same Wind as the heron flies. Music floats without support and finds

the place in me it should.

Blown, whispered.

May I call You Spirit Wind?

There, in the frosted breath. There, in the sigh of lovers. There, in the trembling voice of grief. There, in the infant yawn. There, in the chilled vapors of death.

May I call You Spirit Wind?

*

I want to build for You an altar of my heart. I want to lay upon it flowers and fruit,

wood and meat. Sheaves of wheat for bread, grapes for wine. I will offer clay

and paint and paper and quill. I will adore You for your gifts.

May I call You God?

I will worship you. Because I should. For you are my maker and source. You are

righteousness and mercy and justice and I should lay in supplication before you,

adoring you for your goodness.

May I call You God?

*

I will speak to You, I will be with You and You with me. Our unsure path one, mine. Our

one purpose clear, Yours. You will speak to me as a fellow journeyman and I will

accept that You know me. We will talk of fear and loneliness. Tears of injustice,

blows of intolerance, hateful words of jealousy and betrayal with come between us.

We will fight, I will hate You.

May I call you Brother?

We will reconcile, we will sing our song. We will walk together, shoulder to shoulder,

our past together, our future unknown, into a purple sun.

May I call You Brother?

*

I am made and loved in the forge of the womb. You are all life. You are leaves and roses;

amoeba and ram. You are my warmth and everlasting solace, You made a place for

me. You have and shall always protect and shelter me, uplift and celebrate me.

May I call You Mother?

To be so cherished from beginning to end. To know that You shaped me. To know that You

will never doubt me. To know that I am for Someone and Someone is for me. You.

The beginning of my circle.

May I call You Mother?

*

I know that you are Father, Spirit Wind, God, Brother and Mother. You are all and so

much more. You are Hope and Love and Humility and Grace and Joy.

May I call You Lord?

Lord? I wonder about those who see none of You.

To Whom do they give thanks?

Amen.

Faith is tricky, challenging, difficult and imperative.  I am afraid we'll never teach it right to our boys.  I'll never cover all of the options, never be able to give a definitive answer, never share the fantastic palette with which they might paint their masterpiece of hope.  But we will show them that it is a direction to go, a place to dwell, a way to give thanks.

I said when I started this today that I didn't know what to do with my prayer.

Maybe, actually, I do.

There is a young woman named Paige, who, through an act of profound understanding and grace, makes herself a vessel of God's love by carrying prayers people send her up a mountain in California and burying them in box.  I was deeply moved by this.  In a note I sent her I wrote: "In that hike up the mountain, you turn a prayer into praying."

Her website is called Project Prayer Box and I sent her this prayer and I am glad for that.

I hope you don't mind too much when I get like this, but, honestly... I want the boys to know I got like this, and I probably always will.  Thanks for going with me today.

I wrote of my own hope for a place for my own prayers in this post and I wrote a bit more on prayer in this one.

... in medias res ...

Two boys are splayed out on a seventies shag-like carpet of grass and dandelions and dirt - mostly dirt.  They are gently poking, investigating - memorizing even - a large, long-established ant colony at the edge of a bed surrounding old and tired Rose of Sharon bushes.  The mulch is years old and the ants have a warm, cozy home near the house, nestled in the old roots of the bushes that brush softly and fragrantly against the screen of a tired porch on a tired house on a muggy May evening.

Seconds previous to this moment a clipboard and paper had been acquired and the two curious first time entomologists are discussing the field notes they will take, wondering aloud sweetly if they should disturb the nest, how deep the queen might be and how funny and clever one particular ant seems to them.

"Have fun with ANTS!  Visit Ants."

None of these details matter, in this moment, they are focus and wonder and holiness and future - dirty-kneed, filthy-handed, Gatorade-stained messy grace.

Two heads close together, four hands on the familiar marker stained table, an open craft box, a pile of paper, a singular vision:

I am sure there is no need the explain that in the center is a pig named "Jhavou" who has just won the pig division of the Flying Pig Marathon here in The Queen City.  He is standing in front of the winged, golden trophy surrounded by his good friends and trainers Zack and Nick on what I understand is a pitcher's mound.  His first place certificate and winning check seem to be catching fire.

Again these details don't matter, and, honestly, I um, well, sorta made them up.  Not all of them... his check is on fire.  But, two boys are sharing their imagination, collaborating willingly and happily.  That don't happen overnite, years of time past and years of time to come will only tell the whole story here.  But, I sure like the middle of it.  Perfect in fact.

From the middle of a pile of schoolwork destined for the recycling bin flutters out a piece of paper.  It is a page synonyms, I'd say - front and back:

It's cute and helpful.  (The plane and plain one is my favorite.  A couple of dangling cabbages seem to make a "plain" dress "fancy.")  I have shared this sort of thing here and it stands alone just fine.  However, we are right in the middle of Nick's struggle with, and learning to use, the words he loves and savors so.  It is no secret that he doesn't always spell well, but here, did you notice, it is all correct.  Understanding that there are things to be understood is an important part of our journey and sometimes we see the first sparks of it - shaped by what was and shaping what is yet to come.  And igniting the checks of pig marathoners.


I nearly typed "my point is" which always cracks me up.  Next I considered "the point is" as if there was ever an actual point to anything.  I also considered "if I had a point it would be" which is even more laughable.  I'll just let this bit about what I might have written suffice as a transitional paragraph.

This all started when I saw the corner of this note to myself shoved up under a tottering pile of other notes and blog fodder from the boys:

"It's difficult to tell the story when you are right in the middle of it," and penciled in there is "Hope + Fear" and I am not sure what's scribbled out.  It is hard to see the whole story at times.  A story of fear may be, ultimately, a story about the importance of hope and, in the worst of stories, hope is obliterated by fear... I know that one.

For the most part I like starting and being in the middle of things.  It gives you two choices - make up a story to frame the moment or wait and find out more.  Either way is fun.

I did make one more note as I was working on this today:
 
You can tell the feeling in the middle of things, though.

I know the boys were happy and confident as they watched the ants do their work - as I once was when I spent that evening watching the ants of my own childhood.  I also know the exhilaration and happiness that silliness and creativity bring - and sometimes forget that I was once happier and sillier.  I have known - and I am still finding out - the deep comfort that knowing there are things to know can bring.  It is anticipation - Hope.

What's that?  No, no that is not a quote by Gary Busey.  That would be stupid... Oh, alright it is and here's what I plan to do with it.

Something that Marci did not hear in the backseat nor link to her Facebook page:

"The sun setting over the ocean makes an exclamation point in reverse."

- Gary Busey

I find it in the right spirit of things today though, and, it's one of those things you read and think, why did I never notice that, and, how on earth did Gary ...

(I actually think it's lovely.)


That's all for today.  Well, almost.  Over on the top right of my page here is a new widget.  John Kinnear at Ask Your Dad Blog installed it for me and I don't know why people are so damn nice, thanks, John.   From what I gather if you put your e-mail address in there, perform a magic trick (or decipher one of those letter thingees, which I suck at) and confirm it in your e-mail, (sigh) it will send you a message whenever I post something new here.  Facebook is limiting my reach and, frankly, many of you aren't being notified when I post something new.  Do it only if your interested, it's harmless and, well, I'd like you to keep stopping by.  Thanks for coming today, I appreciate it.

I wish I had a T-shirt with this "hair" guy on it.  I love him...

On Purpose

Sometimes I do things on purpose, with purpose, purposefully.  Today I wish to speak 'On' purpose...

My,  I like that title.  You're so good a titles that don't mean a thing to anyone but yourself.

Why are you here again?

I dunno.  You claim to be in charge.  Just do whatever it was you were going to do, something spiritually, or prayerful.  Oh, I know, maybe something holier-than-thou, you seem to do that a lot these days.

Hey.  I don't mean it that way.  Give me a break.  I am trying to transition to a different place around here, a more... 

You're going to do it right now, aren't you?

Well... maybe.

You were just about to say "transcendent" weren't you?

No.  No, I was not.

Dude, I'm sitting right here. I'm in your own head.  I'm a "device," remember?  Go on...

... a more transcendent, luminous place.

Oh, good God!

I'd like to write more meaningful things.  In fact today I was going to introduce a prayer I wrote recently for a someone, anyone, everyone. 

That doesn't even make sense.  Do it some other time.  What else ya got?

What?  Wait... why? 

Look, these are cute, these pictures the boys made this morning when they got up.

Please, leave the mouse alone.  As you mentioned, I am in charge, so I will publish my prayer today.

Don't.

Why the hell not!? 

Because, well, you aren't ready to.  The prayer is poorly formatted and won't translate well to this template unless you actually make an effort to fix that.  You haven't really planned an introduction for it, you don't really know what you want from it, and you gave it to someone already.  Just think about it and let's look at these images, this one of the chicken is...

That's not all, is it? 

Nope.

Well? 

It's showoffy.

I don't think so, I, well, I worked hard on it and I think it is pretty good for a first try and, uh...

It's.  Not.  Your.  Prayer.

You know, I find it damned offensive that you would come barging in and questioning my motives and, well, just generally pissing me off.

Stop thinking about yourself.  You use "I" a whole lot more than you should.  Remember why you started all this?  Remember the very first image that captured your heart and woke your imagination?  Do you know what the lasting value of what you are doing even is anymore?  Yes, there is room for deeper reflection here, I'll give you that, but first and foremost you have endeavored to show the boys themselves.  If a little bit of you is revealed, that's cool, but try to keep framing it all around cherishing them.  Indeed, this is nothing more than a love letter to them.  Them, not yourself...

That's sorta harsh, dude. 

And?

You're right.  Sigh...  Where were those images?

I don't know.  I can't find them again.  If you had some sort of system for filing all these images it would be a hulluva lot easier to find things around here.  I mean you scan them and then call them something weird and file them to already stuffed folders or just throw them on the desktop and...

I'll take it from here, dude.

But, if you just had a more sensible system...

Listen, you are the device.  That is why I get to say "I" all the time.  Go away.  Oh, and you hate that word, period, word, period thing and you just did it.

You weren't listening.

Go.  Away.


When the boys woke up this morning they scurried out, found paper, and made these two, uh, warrior dudes.  I like to imagine they had a shared dream and in it their characters battled and they had a night of chivalry and conquest.  I call this a "dreamsynch."

It is not what happened.

I believe last night they were talking about these characters when they were supposed to be going to sleep and decided then that they would make them in the morning.  Let's take a look, Nick first:

This seems to be Barza "Meatalman,"  I going to just let you decide what that is supposed to mean.  I see his kind is coal and he does 500-600 Dameg (damage), his helth (I know, it really does seem a little hopeless, his spelling) is hovering right at 522.  That's good, right?  He has a badass sword and seems happy to see you.

He has a pet, Arfodgeo (there is no known translation for that, in fact, it's the first time those letters have been put in that order).  As in  "Arfodgeo, who art in heaven" which I am just sure I heard Nick say this morning as I was making lunches.  He is a mole bear cat Arthur a mouse... with "weaponry" and a skull cap.

Yes, well, moving on...

This is what Zack raced out to do this morning:

Plainly, this is Mr. Miner.  He's got a nice pickax and he is clearly in a tunnel there.  I believe in the land Mr. Miner lives in, canaries have been replaced by tribbles.  His is happy and named Bepodoo.

I have no idea what the hell is happening below there.  The rest of this is a bit harder to explain.  As best I can surmise, and after careful research, I think what we have here is a pineapple helmeted knight who, by day, is a mild-mannered miner.  His simple mining tool transforms into a multi-bladed axe of epic proportion.  His miners helmet becomes a mesh face mask and his fringed blue jeans become a killer cape.

His sidekick is an alarmed dethroned chicken school-crossing guard... in white boots.

Yep, that's what they rushed out to do this morning.  Then they tossed them aside and I picked them up off the floor.


So what about that other thing?

I told you to go away.


But aren't you forgetting something?

You told me not to use the damn prayer.  You said to do it later.  I did all that up there because you said I wasn't ready prepared enough to use the stupid thing...


I meant the backseat thingee...

Oh, well... right.  I can't seem to find a new one.


Do that one thing, where you use a strikeout of the backseat and just...

On it.


From Marci's "...things you don't expect to hear from the back seat..." Facebook page:

teamwork
this is how they used to get drinks from the fountain at the park - one would climb up and the other would push the button, then they would switch  :)

Definitely a family favorite and disgustingly cute, sorry...


Perhaps soon I will find a way to share a prayer with you.  If I can get away with it.  Thanks, other one me, say goodbye to the nice people who stopped by today. 

Goodbye nice people.  He's a good guy, he just gets ahead of himself every now and then.  It's all good... 

You hate that phrase, "it's all good..." 

No I don't, you're the one that hates it.  Just hit publish, wait, I'll do it as soon as I can find it.  Oh, here





He's an idiot! 

What about the title?  Are you going to change the title?

Too late now, you already published this.

Oh, right...


He's an idiot...