2013 was probably my most difficult year to date. I’ve had others that conceivably should have been harder (family tragedies, illness, premature babies) but somehow, this one managed to emerge the victor in some unofficial battle of personal emotional mediocrity. I suppose we all have those years as we get older. I suppose that’s part of growing and bending, or learning to bend.

I’m going to write this in two parts. The first (below) is scraped together from bits and pieces that I culled from my journal. In the end, it has emerged more as an exercise in expressive prose more than anything, a bit of homage to the mohawk-ridden days of hapless youth, but it does the job I guess.

The second part (which I’ll try and wrap up in the next day or two) is about what I have learned. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned a lot about my weaknesses. I’ve learned a lot about distraction, and what I believe is worth pursuing. I’ve learned a lot about mindfulness, and one or two things about being a human on the Earth with a bunch of other humans. Hopefully these things will help lead me and mine into this new year, which seems (as does every new year) to hold almost limitless potential. Almost limitless capacity for hope.

Right?

Part one: Everything is broken, or almost everything.

And so…this is the beginning. The beginning of the creation and maintenance of flow. Flow as a concept and as a discipline. Flow as a creative force, a gentle but subtly unassailable tidal wave (drip, drip, drip) that slowly, gently pushes against the elastic boundaries of consciousness, reshaping and reforming everything in the whole world.

Why write? Why think? Why consider every moment and every opportunity in the light of meaning?

They say “I don’t live for fun.” But do we instead live for fear? For the unknown but ever-present slavedriver of the patterns we are dictated?

It is time for me to consider the assumptions and presumptions of my youth. My wasted youth (the melodrama of over-emphasis, I am aware of this), one caught up in the pursuit of modern convention, not joyfully but with the loveless, lackluster lacquer of duty.

“Go to work” they say. “Develop a skill” they say. “Pay off your debts, buy a sensible house, pay attention to the schools” they say. “It’s foolish to throw away money on rent. “After all, a house is an investment.”

(Is it? Is it an investment to sink your roots so deep that it would take 30 years for those roots to be your own again?)

There’s a sweet, sweet sound to the siren song of stability, but isn’t stability, in the end, death?

For we know these things to be true:

Man must move to stay alive. The body that doesn’t move grows fat, weak, and dies. The car that doesn’t run, rots. The spine of the book that doesn’t open, splits.

Routine is an aggressive mistress. The bringer of Stockholm Syndrome servitude, unthinking monumentalism rearing its ugly head while we sleep, sleep in our cars, sleep at our desks, sleep in our houses at the outer rim of everything, surrounded by the other waking sleepers. “It’s how we do it, be a grownup!” they say. “Act like an adult!”

Meanwhile, our legs rot beneath our desks, and close behind them, our souls.

Why are are our windows closed? Why are our windows closed?

Frankly, we know what the respectable people expect of us. We know the conventions of modern middle-class man.

But do we not also feel the heat, tempered for so long, shrouded in the sinewy vapors of our insecurity and place, the heat of believing that we were not meant for this. Our pursuit, our molehills are pale reflections of The Pursuit, and what we desire (in our everyday hamster wheel lives) is not another room in our house to fill with more stuff. Not a bigger yard. Not another ski trip, slowly proceeding down the mountain with our minor league contentments, but instead the pursuit of real life?

I must once again reiterate that there’s no way to fix being human. We live in a delicate balance of systems, and pretend that we are in control, but in truth our very self (awareness, fear, love, desire) is the precarious tip on a pyramid built of marbles. This is why we need people. This is why we have to believe in God.

I’m afraid to sleep. I want to be awake.

The post Knock Off yr Rust, Part 1 first appeared on Serious is Easy.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop, tuning into the bustling activity around me. It’s early. There are a couple of girls in business attire, quietly discussing an upcoming trip to San Diego and how they’re going to have to work all weekend. Two students are neck-deep in medical manuals, while a third takes a break from her studies to silently shake with laughter at a video on her laptop. A mother and son share a cup of coffee. The smile over some shared memory, a visual conversation as much as a vocal one. One gentleman is surrounded by screens (laptop, tablet, phone) and sips out of a mug emblazened with the crest of a local law firm. The coffee grinder buzzes, espresso hisses, baristas banter. Nothing is still, everything breathes.

I laid in bed for an hour last night before falling asleep. This is unusual for me, as a year and a half of triple parenthood has saddled me with a sleep debt that will probably never be completely repaid. I’m cursed with a rather robust case of hypochondria which flares periodically, it’s something I’ve struggled with since I was a child (I mean, you DIDN’T spend your 7th birthday totally convinced that you had appendicitis? Damn you Madeline books!) and, while I consider it largely in remission, I’ll periodically run across some new mole or previously undiscovered lymph node in my neck that sends me into a spiral of despair that is hard to explain or defend. The latter happened to me last night (it’s like I have a bowling ball living in my neck) and I instantly plunged into a struggle against irrationality that I’m all too used to. So, I laid in bed for an hour, and thought about endings.

(Aside: Right now I’m listening to a some glitchy, atmospheric electronic track that is oh-so-subtly sampling a Peter Gabriel tune. You have to listen hard, but it’s there, and once you hear it you can’t stop. The homage is gentle and touching, in its weird robotic way. “We love you, Peter Gabriel” sing the bits and bytes, the computer composers.)

It’s interesting how when I think about my ending (i.e. being dead), I think about memories (namely, the memories that other people will have of me) which I suppose is an abstract way of thinking about “legacy.” I know I’ve written about legacy before, and I think in some way it’s the consummate obsession of the largest part of my brain. I think this shows itself in various ways; my devotion to work, my devotion to my family, my devotion to regimentation, my shifting-sands struggle with God, faith, and eternity. The idea (or delusion) that routine and repetition are themselves vehicles of Saviour, that all I have to do is maintain momentum. No brakes, all downhill. The pursuit of “productivity” and “passion,” neither of which leave room for stillness. No one is ever remembered for stillness, right? For reflection? Those who are solitary live in the invisible.

Right?

(Is this selfish? Or is this navel-gazing tendency the natural state of human motivation, and that thing that drives us ever onward? Maybe it’s a flaw in the machinery that somehow keeps the whole thing going.)

In order to understand legacy, I feel like we need to understand motion, but at the same time need to understand that legacy is a result, not a process. Legacy requires endings. It requires culmination and finale, it blooms in reflection. My own tendency is to focus on the endings at the expense of the process, to live in a state of near-frozen paranoia, at least in my own head. A fear of waste and burden of meaning. I’m not sure how to handle it, really, but it’s the immovable wall that I’m sure has a little tiny door somewhere that I can sneak through, a crack that will allow me to pass on my way. I’ve just got to keep looking for it.

The post Time Drips Like a Waterfall, Everyone is Alive. first appeared on Serious is Easy.

The catalyzing Twitter discussion revolved around how Dallas is perceived, and how it’s a city that is constantly either 1) solidly in the shadow of its cooler younger brother to the south, or 2) the central topic of some derisive conversation about city planning, obesity, or really terrible television. This is a frustration I share. Any time I leave this city I am on the defensive, feeling like I have to be prepared to justify my decision to live in Dallas as a creative individual. No one who lives in San Francisco, or Portland, or Brooklyn or even Austin ever has to think about the fact that mentioning their city of origin to a new acquaintance could result in a quick smirk, and maybe a football joke or some crack about Walker, Texas Ranger. It’s taken me a long time to come to grips with living in this city, and to come to peace with the fact that we’re here for the long haul.

The fact is, however, that there are good people here. We’re in a unique position of having a high density of smart, creative people who want to live in community, and who at the same time don’t have to deal with the built-in anonymity of being one of the millions that flock to the major creative centers in this country. We can all know each other.

Not only can we all know each other, but there’s so much opportunity to share. There’s so much opportunity to learn. We are not all bound together by our chosen profession or specialities, but by the bonds of living in a city where we really are the grass roots. We can design websites, open a coffee roasting business, renovate a hotel, or put on a concert. We can rethink major city infrastructure, and make those changes happen. We can teach people to screenprint. We can start a record label. We can open an art gallery, or even bake artisan pies. While you can theoretically do all of these things anywhere, here in Dallas the community is such where you have the ability to pursue your passion without being lost in the crowd. You can refine your craft in public, and your community can support you. That’s what’s cool about where we call home.

So, when Kyle laid out his plan for a website that would simply showcase Dallas creatives who are taking ownership of this community, I was excited. The fact is, we really need something like this here. While the opportunity for community is large, due to the expansive nature of the city and the disconnected pockets where we tend to live, making those actual connections can be difficult. WhatIsDallas.com is a step in the direction of making that process a little bit easier, and is hopefully a step in the right direction of giving this city its due. We live here. It’s our home. I, for one, want to be proud of that.

The post Embracing Where You Live first appeared on Serious is Easy.

Priorities, and building your house on a rock

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about permanence. Humanity seems to find itself in a constant state of frenetic forward motion, trying to figure out what’s next and how to use it appropriately, which results in a rapid path from bubble to bubble through the modern age. This is especially easy to see in our field of design and branding, where the idea of “design” has already become so intrinsicly linked to technology that it’s difficult for the layman to separate the two concepts. Last week I was involved in a conversation about relevance, and if it’s possible to stay relevant long-term in the design field as it stands now. How can we possibly keep up with all of these new platforms and behaviours that we’re expected to master and then quickly move on to the next big thing? It seems unsustainable.

A Brief Aside:

After watching the Minka film, I took some time to consider a few questions that I definitely did not ask myself while watching it:

• Who made the hammer that built that house?
• What kind of hammer was it?
• What was the hammer made of?
• Was the hammer compatible on an Android device?

We forget that technology is a tool. Almost everything that we talk about at industry conferences today revolves around “the future of our industry” or “the mobile marketplace”, which is relevant, but it isn’t permanent. The key to remaining relevant in the branding industry isn’t just understanding technology. It’s understanding people. It’s understanding truth, history, and stories. Our job is to create things that speak to the core of the human sprit, which is why so many of us struggle with purpose. How are we even supposed to do that?

But the fact remains: that’s what branding is. It’s easy to be driven by commerce, and driven by conversions and technological fads, but if your brand isn’t built on a solid understanding of how people relate to the people, places, and products that they interact with, then it’s destined for a short life.

(Even the people who build McMansions and the latest in urban upscale condominiums with a mediterranean theme probably have a pretty good handle on how to use a laser level and hammer drill.)

Good brands are built to stand the test of time, and be flexible enough to remain relevant and beautiful, even as the technology and platforms change. They’re a reflection of how people see the world. So, as long as we understand people, craftsmanship, history, nature and the role of materials in tools in the whole process, then we should be fine as creators.

So, let’s all try and fill the world with Minkas. Just don’t get hung up on the tools, because no one will remember those.

The post Minka, Stories, and Building Something That Lasts first appeared on Serious is Easy.

The post A Saturday Morning first appeared on Serious is Easy.

It’s amazing how situations like these take the wind out of my motivational sails. While my ambitions and resulting project list stretch as far as the eye can see, all it takes is one night like that to sink into a state of despair that can only be remedied by a few gallons of coffee, an evening or two of terrible television, and a 9:30 bedtime. The collision of these regular occurrences with the fact that I feel like now is a time in my life when I should be producing my best work so far is something that takes up way too much of my daily mental energy, and is to blame for the fog of guilt that I constantly feel like I’m fighting my way through.

So, why do I love blogs then?

(That was the segue of a chronically sleep-deprived man.)

When Chris Shiflett tweeted his call to arms this morning in which he challenged us all to dedicate ourselves to blogging more, my first thought was, “Okay, perfect. An assigment.” Just like every other creative person on the web, my perennial new years resolution is always to “write more,” a conviction that falls by the wayside at about the same time I connect the dots that “writing more” means “people might read what you write.” I’m a man of abstract and self-deprecating thoughts, and have spent most of my life living under the assumption that people will like you more if they don’t have to listen to you talk very much. I probably would have excelled at The Milton Academy, where students were taught to be neither seen, nor heard.

However, though it’s completely unnatural to me, I love the blog as a platform for writing. I love it because I can write some boring nonsense about staying up all night with a teething toddler, and then shift immediately into why I am an enthusiast for online journals. The freeform potential of the medium is almost unparalleled, and the fact that we can explore ideas in a stream-of-consciousness way is such a simple idea that we can often forget how majestic it is. We might not all be James Joyce, but we can have our own tiny little Ulysses if we so wish.

Why not just keep an actual, physical journal then? A few friends and myself recently had a micro-dialogue (ANOTHER crazy concept) on Twitter about whether the term “blog” should be retired altogether. After all, wasn’t a blog something that existed in the early 00’s when we were all typing about biology class or whatever in our very own Xanga? These days, the conventional blog has been replaced in a lot instances by social aggregates and Tumblr, platforms that allow for things like sharing or commentary, but are less focused on content creation. Tumblr blogs don’t even come with a built-in commenting system (a “feature” that can actually be pretty refreshing. Another talk for another day.) So, as it becomes easier to share pre-existing content and cultivate a following around your taste instead of your ability to say anything specific, fewer and fewer people seem to be using their own public forum to tell their own story in their own voice.

Is that why we write in public? To tell our own story in our own voice?

As a designer, I’m used to creating with a purpose in mind. I have a target audience, a client, and a message. On some level, the reason that I blog instead of journal privately (though I do a little bit of that too, mostly in scraps and pictures) is so that I have the accountability of readership. A blog becomes a platform, and the words become a message instead of just musings, which can in turn start a conversation. This isn’t always necessary; sometimes, we all just need a little bit of a soapbox, a soapbox built in HTML5 with a responsive grid-based layout. But there is at least the potential of a dialogue when you write in public, whereas a private journal lacks that capacity. A journal is for you, and maybe your kids, and maybe everyone else later if you’re Mark Twain or Leonardo DaVinci. A blog is for everyone with an internet connection.

For me, Serious is Easy operates as a place of reflection. It’s a place to ponder memories and ideas, in a strange little world that I’ve created for myself. A lot of people use their personal blogs or websites to teach you something new, or to posture their opinions on the state of technology, politics or the world. That’s not what this place is for. Because of that, my readership tends to be very patient with very narrow interests (and they probably know me in person), but that’s okay. That’s why I love blogs: because they can be whatever you want, and it’s okay.

Shall we write more in public, then?

The post Ideas of March first appeared on Serious is Easy.

Quiet. Enjoy the quiet. Brew some coffee.

I’m going to make an active effort to keep daily track of my thoughts on SXSWi, in an attempt to (hopefully) process things more immediately and immersively. I’ll be interested in seeing where I find the most value in the event. This is my first trip to the interactive part of the festival, which is weird, since it tends to be the one of the first industry events that a strapping young designer is drawn to. That’s what I get for being a poorly-funded, anti-social misanthrope for most of my early twenties, I guess. Historically, everyone I know has really found the looser, more social aspects of SX the most exciting and fulfilling, making connections with people that last well beyond the trip to Austin. I have a feeling I might be a couple of years too late for that myself (though I definitely hope to be pleasantly surprised). The thousands and thousands of orange lanyards I’ve already seen bobbing around the street give the definite impression that the most common state of being here is probably “lost in the crowd.” We’ll see though. On the conference side, I’m pretty excited about a few panels and a keynote or two, and am going to really try and take the time to absorb the newest and most obscure ideas that I can. Cyborgs, anyone? The heavy emphasis on mobile development and startups will also be pretty exciting, and will hopefully serve as a catalyst for the Switch Creative crew as we start to tiptoe into the world of creating our on products.

Also, I just heard a donkey outside of my window. Rad.

Addendum, March 13, 2012: As you have probably deduced, my clever plan of writing a summary post every day ended up being laughable at best. I should have known at much. During four frenetic days in Austin I did manage to scribble quite a few notes and was introduced to some interesting ideas, and also managed to shoehorn in some excellent social time with some good friends as well. I’ll be compiling my favorite insights into a post that should (hopefully) be coming later this week.

The post Austin, Morning One first appeared on Serious is Easy.

Short story idea: This one would revolve around a ventriloquist who spends years honing his craft, speaking for this puppet and throwing his voice, until his act becomes so perfect that even the most diligent observers can’t see a hint of movement from his mouth as his dummy sings, dances, and cracks jokes for hours at a time.

Soon, the dummy is so integrated into the ventriloquist’s life that he never takes it off his arm. It speaks almost as much as he does. Soon, he starts introducing more dummies. Character after character spill onto the stage during his shows, and he is a worldwide marvel. His act is a frenzy of separate characters interacting, different voices, different personalities, all interacting in a cacophony of hilarity. Soon, however, the ventriloquist starts to grow confused, realizing that he’s having a harder and harder time pulling back from his dummies. It takes him longer and longer to be able to speak in his own voice when his shows are over. When he dreams, he dreams of audiences and the stage, and dreams in the voices of his puppets. Soon he can’t remember who he is, or what his voice sounds like, or whether or not he even has a voice that is independent of the voices of his puppets.

Maybe the story would close on him becoming a mute, so unsure of his own voice that he’s unable to speak at all.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a “professionally” creative person, and the different tracks that you are often presented with. In it’s simplest form, creative work breaks down into either client-initiated work or self-initiated work. These two worlds exist in almost every creative field, and most people I know who are in one tend to maintain some balance of both client and personal projects. Both client and personal work are important, but for different reasons. Client work teaches you how to communicate, it helps you understand the market, needs, and trends, and forces you to constantly flex the boundaries of your technical understanding and personal communication style. It helps you clarify a method and understand how other people think. Personal work teaches you to explore rabbit holes, understand the the value of obsession, take pleasure in personal expression, and hopefully gain fulfillment through the freedom of self-realized expectations.

I’ve spent the last half-decade or so almost exclusively on client work (more specifically, creating websites for clients). It’s been a weird exercise in acting, in playing parts, and it is something that I really enjoy.

The problem with this path is that, after a while, your mind starts to default to a way of thinking, trying to view everything through the lens of the everyman. Your personal voice becomes drowned out by the competing voices in your head. It’s a very schizophrenic experience. It’s difficult to figure out what your true voice sounds like, and what it should say, and how it should say it. By “voice” I do not mean “style,” and by “voice” I do not mean “message.” I do not mean tone. What I do mean is something almost intangible but that is still undeniably attached to you, and that, if left behind, would be unmistakably associated with yourself. It’s a reflective demonstration of how you perceive and interact with the world. I think this can be realized in a number of ways, whether it’s a product (song, painting) or a story, or an idea, or just a way of thinking. A social construct. A suggestion. The problem that I have with these is that they all require enough confidence to comprehend their value without relying on the feedback or needs of a client. How do you know if it’s good if no one seems to care? Does that matter?

Like I asked before: is it the speaker who defines the voice, or the listener? Is it the giver who bestows value, or the receivers? I guess that’s the constant struggle of any artist, and why I tend to retreat to the comfortable security of client-based work, and tangible results. I guess that’s why my voice isn’t very distinct these days. It’s something I want to work on.

The post The Schizophrenic Ventriloquist first appeared on Serious is Easy.

Although neither Justin nor Sean’s first instrument is piano, they were able to remodel the songs in a way that showcases their complimentary vocals and, perhaps more strikingly, a seemingly effortless ability to experiment with form and structure.”

This is rapturously good. The simplicity of the instrumentation and vocals is really complemented by what I can only imagine is a sonically majestic recording space. Makes me want to record in a church.

The post Bon Iver at AIR Studios first appeared on Serious is Easy.

Early last week my son figured out how to say the word “dog.” Well, really it’s more like “DUUUUUGHDHGH” or sometimes “DUUUHEEEEE” (“doggie”) but it’s easy to tell by his boisterous attempts to strangle our poor mutt what he’s going for.

He chases the creature around the room, dragging himself forward by his arms Lt. Dan style, squealing and laughing at the game which he is forcing on his four legged friend. Every minute or so she settles down, but he’s on her in moments, trying to grab her ears or eat her nose. Finally, after a few attempts at fending him off, she’ll settle down with a huff of resignation and reward him with a lick on his bald Charlie Brown head.

Aside #2:

My elder (by 50 seconds) daughter loves to dance. She dances when she’s laying on her back, she dances when she’s trying to crawl, and she dances when she’s standing on your lap.

As soon as she hears music she starts bending her legs, bobbing her tiny head and swaying from left to right like a scarecrow in the wind. She is not graceful, nor is she rhythmic, but she loves to dance. If you dance with her, she will smile so large that her eyes almost disappear into her chubby face, she’ll start patting your arm with surprisingly regular rhythm, and she will love you forever.

Aside #3:

My younger daughter finds the most mundane objects incredibly absorbing. Her ability to manipulate small objects with her miniature fingers is the envy of every craftsman, and she loves to inspect every seam, corner, and texture of her toys.

She loves to sit on my shoulders and comb her fingers gently through my hair, and sometimes, just to keep me on my toes, gives my beard a yank that almost tosses me to the floor. She points with great seriousness and deliberation. She wants to know what paper is made of. She doesn’t like how Christmas Trees taste, but she likes how the needles feel. She’s really into petting her brother’s downy head right now.

The part where I learn that time isn’t a straight line:

Time is weird. Everyone talks about time using the “hill” metaphor; first you go up, then you peak, then it’s downhill. The uphill part is slow, and the downhill part is fast. Even though time is one of the most boringly consistent things we could ever encounter it somehow seems so elastic, so fast and slow based on how we fill it. Time is a balloon, and our efforts are the gas that fills it. Now that I’m an adult, it never seems like I have “enough time”, and spend most of my day “finishing what I’m working on” so that I can get to the next thing. Finish designing that site so you can design the next one. Finish that book so you can start the next one. Finish that album so you can release it and be done. Finish the yard so you can plant that garden, so your plants can grow, so you can cook them and eat them, and then be done.

Start over.

I remember in college my roommate and fellow theoretical malcontent Nathan would spend every Thursday night outside. We’d start the evening watching a movie from “The List,” a handwritten tome we had taped to a closet door, a guide to films that we should see while we were still young and bright-eyed. Once the TV had been turned off and our various guests had straggled home we made our way to the parking lot, where we would sprawl on the hood of my car and smoke terrible cigars while staring at what passes as stars in the middle of the city. We’d talk about the movie, and about life, and art, and sometimes girls. Just catch up, and wonder where we were going. Time seemed slow then. There was nothing ahead of us, nothing behind us. Just right then.

These days, I find myself thinking more and more about moments like that, as I watch my kids start to explore their environment. Brows furrowed, they try endlessly to crawl, to figure out how to clap their hands, or to stack blocks without knocking them over. These are moments. Time is a series of dots, of these moments. Not a fishing line, reeling us helplessly to our demise through a torpid ocean that we barely understand. Time is a constellation.

It occurred to me over the weekend as I watched the kids engaged in these various pursuits how little they understood the idea of “completeness.” They didn’t care when they were finished. They don’t understand the word finished. They can’t define success, or fear failure. They’re just doing what they’re doing at that moment. Stars.

That’s the first thing I’ve learned from my kids.

The part where I learn you are who you are:

This part is short, because now, in retrospect, it should be perfectly obvious. My wife read me a National Geographic article the other day about twins, and the extent to which nature influences their development, vs. nurture. While of course the environment in which a child is raised has a profound impact on his or her development, who a child essentially is seems to largely be in place from the cradle. As I alluded to earlier, I think a lot of new parents either live in fear that becoming a parent will “change” them or their partner, or, in the converse, place unrealistic expectations on their partners to change once the kid comes. Of course, some adaptation is necessary; if you come home from work and immediately turn on ESPN or go out with friends 3 nights a week then there’s probably some evaluation that needs to happen. But the fact is, whatever you valued before you become a parent is what you’ll value afterwards. For me, my concerns were wrapped up in how having three kids would affect my ability to be creative, and how my priorities in that area would shift. Would I still have the energy to think of and write down weird, abstract ideas in my sketchbook, or would I be spending that time changing 15 diapers? Would I still have time to play Paddock shows, would I even WANT to play shows, or would I slowly spiral into a gradually more exhausted husk of a man who really just wanted some “down time” where I could watch X-Files reruns in sweatpants?

What I’ve realized is that if something is important to you, if it’s built into your worldview and how you approach life, you’re stuck with it. If you have a desire to create, a desire to reflect, then the way you parent will function through that lens. As my wife recently told me, “I’ve learned that having kids doesn’t change who you are, it just means you have to work harder at some things.” How we interact with our kids is simply a facet of how we interact with the world. A lot of people get that backwards, I think. Being a parent is a very important and rewarding, but ultimately individual, piece of the complex system that each of us are.

We are puzzles, we are atoms.

On embracing the isolation of experience, and not feeling lonely:

When the kids wake up, they usually wake up one at a time. First we’ll be wrested from our slumber by the gentle warble of a single voice (usually the boy, who apparently has inherited his father’s tendency towards sleep disorders), who will sing for 10-15 minutes before we hear another voice chime in, this one a bit more contentious and annoyed (the girls have apparently inherited their mother’s desire to sleep without being woken up by annoying boys) followed by a third. We know that once all three are awake it’s time to gather the troops, and prepare to storm the barracks as a united force. Usually we’ll stand outside their door for a minute, rubbing sleep from our eyes, until one of us says “ready?”

It’s time.

We open the door quickly, and as soon as the kids notice our presence a wail like you’ve never heard bursts towards the rafters, each kid clamoring to be the first one picked up, each stating their case with a vehemence that is surprising for such tiny humans. Christina and I each grab one, leaving the third to be eaten by some sort of terrible crib monster (I assume, by his/her reaction) and scuttle them into the living room for feeding. As soon as one of the lucky two are settled in with a bottle we rescue the third one, sticking a bottle in his (usually) mouth, saving him from starvation in the nick of time.

Now, let’s count those babies. One. Two. Three. There are three babies, and two parents in the living room now, all laying on the floor in various states of disrepair.

The fact is, this is not a normal state of being. Most new parents will never experience this reality, and I’ve found that it’s important for me to remember that. The very nature of our experience separates us on some level not only from our single friends (who make up the majority at this point), but also from our married friends, and even from those parents who have a single kid. It doesn’t really have to do with the level of difficulty of having three kids; quite frankly, our kids all put together probably add up to one kind of barely-not-easy kid. It just has to do with the fact that there are three of them. There are things we just can’t do right now. There are places we can’t go, things we can’t spend money on. We can’t live in a loft in the city. We can’t drive to Austin on a whim for a show. We can’t own a Mazda Miata.

But that’s okay. Because we have three kids.

It’s difficult to not feel isolated in a situation like this. It’s difficult to have reciprocal relationships that grow when it’s even hard to find time to cook anything more complex than a turkey sandwich for dinner. Relationships take time. Relationships take energy. For the past 10 months Christina and I have had a lot of discussions about struggles we’ve had relationally with others, and how easy it is to feel disconnected from a world that has very little understanding about what it’s like to be you. There really isn’t an easy answer to this one. I’m still figuring it out.

Really, all I can do right now is figure out how to be okay with understanding the weird uniqueness of our situation, and take joy in the everyday, even if that means forming relationships outside of my family will be harder. This loops back to my thoughts on time, and how life is made up of moments. When I can, I want to use moments to connect and collaborate with others in a meaningful way, but those moments might just be further apart than they used to be, like a really well-skipped rock, periodically touching the surface of the water lightly as it travels on its journey. Those ripples are connections, and are imperative, but just different for me now than they have been before. Like a sunset, or maybe a sunrise.

On adventure, story, and regaining imagination:

I feel like this part of the post is a lot less about story than the first half was. I think that stories exist to give us context for reflection, a gently rippling heat wave that can serve as a mirror, something that interacts with our perceptions in a way that, together, create a painting in motion that we can somehow understand. When I think back on this year, I remember everything in vignettes, bits and pieces of  fading, static sensations. I remember the icy road leading to the hospital early in Christina’s stay. I remember the questionable sushi from the cafeteria, and the sound of the light rail that passed right outside her window. I remember her struggle getting in and out of bed. I remember listening to their heartbeats twice a day, always with an elevated pulse of my own, never knowing what to expect. I remember tiny little fingers, and the first time they were wrapped around mine. Hiccups. Fake baby smiles. Crying, lots of crying. Late-night bottles and the constant hum of battery-powered swings. Then, finally, laughing. Recognition. Slowly, reaching for my face, fingers entangled in my beard. Playing with toys. Rolling over, then sitting up, then jabbering and teeth. Crawling. Standing.
Every moment is a snapshot leading to the next.

Christina and I talk often about how we want our kids to be adventurous. We want them to live lives that are worth retelling, and every day it hits home that it starts with us. This brings me to what my kids are teaching me today; that every day is new, and every day is an adventure. One side effect of having triplets it that there is no mundane. There is no coasting. Everything is pedaling, and everything is uphill. What I’ve learned to realize is that the most exciting part of the journey is the climb, even if it’s the hardest.

In summation, where my thoughts drift and I end poorly:

The challenge we’ve set for ourselves as parents is not easy. We’ve tried to nudge ourselves and our children onto a path of exploration, one that avoids the net of conventionality and ease, one that gives them a chance to make a path and understand their place. I’ve realized that it’s the very fact that we were pulled so suddenly out of our Normal into this world of Weird that has given us the freedom to relax, and know that nothing we do from here on out is “the normal way,” which just reinforces that we can approach everything creatively, with imagination. That’s what happens when it seems like you’re living in a surreal dream most of the time; a waking life where you can fly if you think about it hard enough, or eat as many cookies as you want and not get fat.

Or have three babies all at the same time. I think I’ll choose that one.

Time to turn the page I guess.

The post Mnemosyne, Part 2. first appeared on Serious is Easy.