So that’s the question: How do you want your rain? How do you want your life? Filtered, packaged in a bottle with a pretty label, and costing more than many people have for all of their sustenance for an entire week? Or straight out of the sky, scooped out of rivers, falling down your face, and dripping off the ends of your hair, mixed in with fits of laughter, impromptu races where the winner doesn’t matter, and faded t-shirts clinging to the heaving, breathing, living, satisfied chests of children?

(This was inspired as a response to some beautiful words about finding oneself again.)

You were just a child. You had boyfriend pants, brightly dyed hair, both of your nipples pierced, and your head tilted toward the world. Your sweet, flowing innocence was evident in every looped “l”, every dotted “i”, and every praise for an unsmoked cigarette.

In your innocence we were giants. We’d taken a chance. We’d overcome huge obstacles. And somehow, that simple fact made us both bigger than anything else in the world in your eyes. There was nothing we couldn’t step on or run through should it get in our way. I loved you for that innocence. I loved you for the freedom that brought us. That should have been enough. But it wasn’t.

When experience met you nose to nose, your innocence wasn’t enough to over come it. That which once anchored you and gave you liberty to claim the world as your own was now holding you underwater as the oceans of life rose around you. The only choices you had were to cut loose or die.

I don’t regret you. I don’t regret any moment spent together in that early morning light of life, where everything looks beautiful and warmly tinted.

And as I placed your journal among all the other things I still have that belong to you, I felt a little sadness for what was lost, but mostly peace having learned that what we had together wasn’t wrong, or forced, or built on lies. It simply couldn’t exist in this world and was never meant to last. But those things that it did bring us will last forever, and life wouldn’t be the same without them.

In the urgency of the laugh that never came
we realized we didn’t really need
a dress rehearsal.
Instead, we called it opening night.

Our hands were clasped to hold the liner notes of sad songs we sang together.
I’m a sucker for a soft, sad song, don’t get me wrong. But, no matter how soft
or how thick, a blanket of sadness just doesn’t keep me warm at night.
In the end, all we really had is a handful of wishes and far far too much sadness.
So you can call this whatever you want but I’m throwing your toothbrush away.
and I’m building the rest of my life on blocks of happiness.

We live in a world hell bent on improving the things we love.
Fat free cheese, sugar free soda, caffeine free coffee.
But there is nothing as sweet as your smile.
There is no excitement like that brought by your half closed eyes
looking down upon me under the canopy of your hair.
There is no way to lighten a kiss taken from your lips.
So fill me up, babe.

I don’t know how to write the word “perfect” without it looking insincere,
but I meant it.

I can’t play you enough songs to help you understand,
so you’ll never know exactly how I feel. But I’m still going to try.

I can’t even give a list of reasons why without sounding like
one part gushing journal of a twelve year old girl
and one part grandfather whose only passion is in strict perfection.
But there is something about that combination that feels just right–
Mixing learned responsibility with the passion of middle school love.

Too many dreams went unlived
because I couldn’t convince myself that I needed them.
Too many moments went uncherished
because I should have been spending my time more wisely.
Well I don’t need you but I’m holding on tight.
And I don’t have time for this
but I intend to waste every second on it.

We letter this poem on our bare shoulders.
Each letter sticks, but only for an instant
rubbing off with the next drawn shape–
changing as we do, from soft fingered letters
on smooth, subtle surfaces
to deep, blocky letters pushed into the
salt of sweat and tears by whatever crude tool is closest.
But…
If you look close enough. If you stare right there.
If you don’t blink. For just the hint of moment you’ll see
that the poem is writing itself.

I only dream
of rain drops speckled on the shoulders
that lean so comfortably into me,
hair clinging to the sides of your face
in the same paths that I would
draw my fingers down again and again.

I only wish
that when the storm lifts
the moon is shining full
upon curves now glistening
in the blueish light.
The secure rise and fall of breath –
the peace of being that sits
before the next beautiful storm.

Yesterday was my 7th wedding anniversary.

We’ve been separated for over a year. We’ll likely be no longer married within a month or two. I never wanted to split up in the first place, not because of my wife, but because of the commitment we made and because of my child. Despite all of this, I still had cause to celebrate.

My daughter and I spent the afternoon at the park with a friend. We went down slides. We ran across picnic tables. We even waded in the lake. Then we went home, made a quick dinner, then ate it on the balcony as the sun set. We played games, got into our PJs, had a snack, and went to bed. It was the perfect days-end filled with wonderful people and, best of all, my daughter.

I imagine I should be upset, or angry, or remorseful, or at least sad. But I’m not. My current relationship with my spouse is rarely pleasant though mostly tolerable. However, I still consider this day, seven years ago, as the second best day of my short life. Without it, not only would I not have my daughter, but I would not have the personal growth, the love, the understanding, the compassion and the priorities that have come with a child. I am a better person now than I was with my wife. I might even be a better person than I was before her. I’m happier. I’m more at peace. I’m more gracious. I love life more. And I love myself more.

It seems strangely fitting that on this day of all days my daughter and I would wade into cold, cold water and come out somehow better than we were before. A baptism of sorts. A rebirth.

So here’s to moving on. Well sort of.

Last night I had a dream that I was living in a house with another family that I loved dearly. I had quit my job to care for my child and we were so poor we couldn’t even afford curtains for the back windows, which was fine since they overlooked a large beautiful field. Perhaps to some this may seem like a nightmare already, but, truly, I loved living that way.

In my dream a got a phone call from my wife’s current boyfriend. He called to ask if we could talk. I told him that I had a full house of people and that now was not a good time. As I said these words I noticed him standing out in the field behind our house. My wife was with him.

One-by-one, beginning with my wife and ending with the first girl I ever slept with, every girlfriend or close female friend I’ve ever had came into that field to have sex with my wife’s boyfriend. Not all of them, but many of them, called me as they were doing so to tell me how much I meant to them, either now, or when we were together.

The father of the family I lived with and I sat in the living room looking out into the field and just waited for them all to go away, a bittersweet moment for me as I was seeing the people I loved the most in this world, yet was watching their lives destroyed in front of me.

One big question I still haven’t found the answer to is, what do I do with my wedding ring?

One of the biggest benefits of having a partner, especially when children are involved, is being able to “tag out” of something when the situation becomes too complicated or poorly-matched to your strong suits. And I don’t mean partner as in “spouse”. I mean any kind of person who is regularly around, chooses to be a part of your life, intermingles their life with yours, and takes an active interest in the well being and happiness of you and those that you care about.

Yesterday I had about fifteen hours worth of pounding, eye aching, skull splitting, ear drum shattering, headache. Drugs helped but only in doses that bordered on affecting my ability to care for my child. With no place to go, no one to help, I had no other option but to simply do the best I can.

My daughter, both brilliantly and sadly, has learned the signs. She proclaimed, “Daddy’s just a little bit frustrated.” Usually, that’s enough to knock me over, get me smiling, and make me realize that nothing — NOTHING — is as important as enjoying life and enjoying my time with my precious daughter. But, when it’s a headache that is at the root of so much frustration, I simply can’t push it back far enough to forget about it.

Yesterday was terrible. I actually yelled at my poor, precious, innocent little girl twice. She was guilty of nothing except wanting someone to play with. About 15-20 minutes after I dared take another dose of drugs she would announce, “Daddy’s not frustrated anymore!”, simultaneously telling the truth exactly as it is and making me feel like the most terrible father on the planet.

In the end, it just makes me sad. It makes me sad that I get this way and can’t seem to find any reliable relief. It makes me sad that my daughter has to be in the middle of it. It makes me sad that society has become so insistent on self-reliance that networks of support are not built in, people are either too afraid or too busy to offer help, and we’re too proud to ask for it and wouldn’t even know who to ask if we weren’t. It makes me sad that the one safety net our society provides for this — marriage — has been ripped out from underneath me.

I think the saddest thing of all is that I’ve actually considered — and, thankfully, pushed away the idea — trying to teach my daughter how to accept isolation and lack of social connection even when I’m healthy so that she can better handle it when I’m not.

I’m sorry, baby girl, for being such a grump yesterday. I know you will forgive me, because you already have. Because even at your age — especially at your age — you know that everyone makes mistakes and that holding those things against someone serves no purpose. I hope you never forget that. I am working as hard as I can to be less frustrated and less often and to find ways around these difficult situations that, once in them, are out of my control.

but I know your song.
I know its volume and its capacity to fill.
it is not the rain which never ceases.

I am not suited by a place.
home is not tangible.
yet it is so easily described by tangible things.
things like you, new york.
and the next best thing.

To Do List

It’s really bittersweet that my To Do list actually looks like this. That, among all those other important things, I can easily, plainly spell out that terrible four letter word: divorce.

I mean, it’s inevitable at this point. We’ve been physically separated for a year. Emotionally separated for, apparently, much longer than that.

In part I’m happy that the mere thought of divorce no longer sends me into a spiral of worries and self doubt and fear that my child will be as destroyed as I was. Yet, at the same time, I’m upset that it can so easily take part in a list expressing all of our basic duties.

Clean up your messes, take care of your government, make the people you love happy, provide shelter, and take care care of yourself.

we can choose to see that which is empty and bleak, or we can choose to see new life and new potential.

the doors we choose shape who we are, the way we see our path shapes who we will be.