"The metal of these wrenches is so cold it hurts the hands. But it's a good hurt. It's real, not imaginary, and it's here, absolutely, in my hand,"
-Robert Pirsig 'zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance'

My Dad 1951-2015

He was, perhaps first of all, an individual. Both in thought and expression, he blazed his own trail and made his own rules. And with his insatiable sense of curiosity and adventure he continually searched for his own truth. He was unburdened by social convention and he had a knack for sharing this uncommon sense of freedom with people he met. He was truly unique, like a yellow tulip in a sea of red roses.

Grabe had tremendous heart. And it showed in the way he lovingly cared for his "flowfies", took in stray animals, and even made personal sacrifices to stand up against injustice when he encountered it. For 28 years he consistently showed me unconditional support and encouragement. When the world around you grew dark and nothing seemed clear, he was the type of person who could make you feel hope again. And he did that, time and time again. 

perhaps most of all he was the most genuine human being I've ever met. He never pretended to be something he wasn't, and never hid who he really was from anyone. He was intimately acquainted with the human condition, and yet he had a powerful skill in seeking and unashamedly finding joy in life. He was full of it. He was known to become visibly excited at the prospect of eating broccoli. His eyes would often sparkle when he had a good idea and he knew the pleasure in simple things like bright colors and pretty flowers. In many ways he was pure heart. 

he was full of light. But he also wrestled with a sort of inner darkness. unswervingly introspective, he fearlessly carried his light into the darker places. It was as if his soul was forged far out on the sea at the very point where the awesome light of the dying of day meets with the enshrouding darkness of night - melding together to create a most beautiful display and the most perfect picture of life itself. 

and that's just part of who he was. More than all of that, he was my dad. My father, my bloodline. The same blood that pulsed through his veins also pushes it's way through mine. He taught me how to navigate these waters. Taught me to look for beauty and wonder, and reassured me that you can always find it if you really look. It's right there in the way a leaf on a tree flips back and forth in the breeze. Or there under the rock where the bugs crawl. It's there in the moonlight that bounces off the river's surface at night. 

white knuckles

there's something in my genes that wants to be able to stand up under my own load. muscle up. drink some coffee, put some tupac in my headphones, and just do it. i really want to believe that i have the strength in me to pull it off. if i just hold on tight, i wont lose my grip.

it occurred to me today that i might get this spirit from my dad. perhaps his were the whitest knuckles of them all. he fought hard. with every sunrise another battle. i know because i read some of his last journal entries. they betrayed a man, full of bravery, fighting - tooth and nail - determined not to lose his grip.

the problem with white knuckling is what happens when you at last lose your strength. and there's no one there to catch you when you collapse.

we need each other in this journey. we have to learn how to lean on each other and how to be present to be leaned on. i don't think my grip is strong enough.

Saint Anthony

I stood on top of the mountain today with my face turned toward the wind and shouted. I looked up at the sky and screamed, "is that all you got?!" and i felt something churn in my heart. It was like the words took on an intensity I didn't intend for them to take. Like something in me wanted to confront the darkness that has haunted me and my family.

It was a type of genuineness I haven't felt in a while. And it shook me. I looked down at the horizon and then over at the guy standing with me and laughed nervously, hoping he didn't notice.

rubber ball vs. gravity

there are times when my whole mind, my whole being twists up and fights against this notion that

"losing is something we all do in life."

when i was six, i lost my favorite jean jacket. i left it in a restaurant or something on the side of the highway somewhere.

when i was seven i lost my cat. he was black and had a kink in his tail. he got hit by a car on the street.

when i was eight i lost my pet rabbit. my mom's siberian husky...

when i was ten i lost my favorite dog. we gave him away because he was a trouble maker.

when i was 22 i lost my grandmother, ruth. she was my ally. always giving me delicious fruit and telling my mom to be nice to me. she fell asleep one night and didn't wake up.

but i'm not writing a sob story. i mean, we all lose. it's part of life. we learn to live with it. we learn to let go. we find a way to  say goodbye to the things we thought we'd always have.

but when i was 28, i lost my dad. on the verge of a bright future, he left me.

and my heart won't accept it. i can't concede, in this case, that "losing is something we all do in life." there's no part of that statement that sits well in any way. my heart contorts and tenses up. as if, letting the thought inside would mean admitting it's okay somehow. and yet the second hand keeps moving. i have to get dressed. go to work. life doesn't let up.

then eventually there are days when i'm too tired to keep fighting it. and i crumple underneath it. my shoulders slump, my eyes burn, and my heart feels broken. and yet i feel a sense of rest that is somehow comforting.

i think the point is that, no matter how hard i fight, the truth remains as solid as the planet on its path through the universe. losing really is something we all have to endure.

but i'll still fight. in the same way that a rubber ball bounces against gravity when it hits the ground.

scars

when i was a kid my older brothers were both big fans of virginia cavaliers basketball. they loved it so much they decided to cut and bend a metal hanger into the shape of the v, then heat it up over the stove until it was visibly ret hot and press it into the sides of their arms. i remember watching them with a mixture of awe and confusion filling my eyes as they yelled out and pulled the oven mitt away and the pieces of hanger stayed stuck to the melted skin underneath.

in the days that followed, the wounds scabbed over. but my oldest brother insisted it wasn't good enough yet. he carefully picked the scab off so that the wound re-opened and would need to scab over again. once it did, he picked it right off. the purpose was to increase the size and depth of the scar. and to this day, he carries a broad v-shaped scar on his shoulder and he never forgets where it came from.



(i never understood the driving force behind this action until now. it's been said, perhaps too many times, that time heals all wounds. but what happens when you don't want to move on? what happens when you don't want to heal? because to heal means to let go of something you desperately hold on to in your heart. i don't want my wound to scab. i want to pick the scabs. i don't want to let go.)

warning

it's really difficult to process all the different emotions and thoughts that plague me in the wake of losing my dad. but i am going to begin to try to approach my thoughts and feelings here on my blog. ever since i started this web log, it has been the most effective way to take the upstairs neighbors (my thoughts) who stomp around in their steel boots and disturb and interrupt every thing going on in my life, and get them out/give them a vent so they stop stomping around so obnoxiously.

i'm not sure if this blog has any regular audience anymore, so these posts aren't really for anyone but myself, and yet i leave them public because if anyone was wondering what was going on inside my head, this is the most close to accurate resource there is. that being said, if you, reader, are a regular visitor of this site, consider yourself warned. you may want to take a short vacation from it.