we are drawn to happiness.
anything else rarely results in learning
unless we aim to teach avoidance.
especially in a child.

more little oceans form.
entire seas
requiring nail upon bitten nail,
lip upon pulled lip,
and every waking moment
until I see her smiling face again
to dry them up.

I never stop being amazed by my daughter. Just when I think she’s reached the limit of what a child is even capable of, I find myself surprised and reestablishing my expectations. She is so kind and selfless and understanding. Yet, at the same time, she has this independent streak that both intrigues and frightens me. I can’t help but see myself in her: like a mirror that only reflects the best parts of whomever gazes into it. But I also worry that the less desirable parts of who I am will make their way to her as well. And yet every day, seeing her innocent perfection is inspiration to me to be an even better man.

One day 15 minutes or so into making dinner, she comes into the kitchen asking if she can help. She grabs her stool and pulls it up to the counter. She’s not just moving stuff around and looking for snacks. She’s tasting vegetables, seasoning foods, stirring bowls, and making sure that we have a well rounded meal.

Another day I’m doing laundry and she walks in with her stool ready to help. She doesn’t just want to throw laundry into the washer. She wants to know why I’m making so many piles. She wants to be able to make the piles herself. I explain it and she gets it.

She wants to be a part of life, whatever that life is. She wants to give. She wants to do her part. From the point of view of completing a task, she’s no help at all. I can do everything faster without her tagging along and making a mess out of things. But when it comes to living a life she’s incredible. She reminds me with every second that life isn’t just a list of things that need to be done and an ever ticking clock measuring off how many moments we’ve wasted not doing them. Life is living.

Just as the sun was setting one day we decided to go to the park. Bringing her parasol is an absolutely requirement. Along the way she notices the little things. She comments on the fact that there are dried, crunchy leaves on the sidewalk even though it isn’t autumn. I explained to her that the tree was sick and that it might die. She points out a flock of birds flying together and decides that they are flying in the shape of a fish. The swing is still her favorite. Higher and higher, faster and faster, each apex brings a new smile somehow bigger and brighter than the one before it.

That’s how this feels, this parenting thing. It feels like I’m a kid again on the biggest, fastest, highest swing ever made.

So, in all, that’s four criteria. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but it is. I have to feel like you give as much as I give and I have to like who you are. That’s all there is to it. Two questions — Do I like who you are? Will you give as much as I’ll give? — asked to two people. And we need four answers of “yes”.

I’ve dated women that I really liked. I liked how they looked. I liked what they were into. I liked their outlook on life. I liked their thoughts on children and marriage and cohabitation. But, ultimately, I realized the relationship would never be fair. I would always give more, worry more, work more, clean more, do more, take care of more… and for all of that more, I would be left feeling like I wasn’t doing enough. And that’s just no way to live. I’ve become so accustomed to this being the case, in fact, that, perhaps unfairly, it ends up being one of the first things that get tested.

There are other women I’ve dated that I knew would always be by my side. They would take care of everything that needed caring for, pick up any slack I left, and that any thing they said they would do, they would do their absolute best on. But, I didn’t like who they were. They were preoccupied with material things. Or not very forth coming and honest. Or compelled to lie about something instead of dealing with the discussion that might follow the truth. This doesn’t happen very often, though. I’m good at reading who people are. I’m good at seeing between the lines. I’m good at understanding what I’m getting into before I get into it. So, more often that not, if it’s someone I’ll ultimately not like, then I probably didn’t get involved in the first place.

On the rare case that my side of things both saw a “yes”, I still have to pass the same tests for her. I don’t think too many times any of it had to do with me not being giving enough, since that tends to be my virtue to a fault. But I’m sure it could be felt that way if you pick apart exactly what is being given, which would be a fair thing to do. But, I think in most cases the women I’ve dated ultimately didn’t like who I was. But it’s not quite that simple.

It wasn’t that they didn’t like me. They just didn’t like ALL of me. I could see it in their eyes, flipping the situation over and over, trying to get a better angle. Because they loved the idea of me. I’m generous and kind and mostly stable. But I’m also a bit crazy and exciting. I pick up the slack. I make hard things easy. I don’t hold grudges. I live to live. I’m good with kids. I make good money. I know how to party. I’m not bad to look at. I can hold my own in bed. I know a little bit of everything. I get a lot of things right. And so I’d see them trying to find ways to bury the handful of things they didn’t like about me somewhere inside of all of my good things. But it never worked. We’d get through a week — a good week — and then one of those little things would pop up again and it’d all come crashing down. Eventually, one of us would give up for all the fighting and we’d part ways.

I don’t mean to say I didn’t do my share of burying the bad things I’ve seen in other people too. Every now and then, something unseen at first will creep into view and, because there is so much I already like about someone, it’s just makes sense to throw it back where it came from and hope it never comes back. But it does. It always does. And when it does, that when I find the most growth in myself. One of two things happens.

I either decide that the part of me that doesn’t like that part of her is so fundamental to who I am that there’s no point in continuing. And then that’s that. I get a stronger sense of who I am and life gets a little less complicated.

Or, I realize that I’m being foolish. That this thing I don’t like is meaningless. And I change myself to be more tolerant of it. And in those cases, I become more open, more passionate, more understand, and a better person all around.

I think the thing that generates the most heartache for people as they go through these same four questions over and over in their own lives is their inability to act when they see something they don’t like. They don’t hold themselves strong and say “I don’t like this, and it’s important, so I’m gone.” They don’t change themselves and say “maybe I need to learn to accept this.” Instead they say “it’ll go away”, or worse, “maybe I can change him and make it go away.” But it never does because it’s part of who I am and it’s not being addressed. Inside them there’s this little voice trying very hard not to be heard for fear that they’ll ruin something they think is amazing that isn’t actually working out for them at all.

Though I can still remember the heat of your kiss,
The taste of the salt from your skin,
And the wideness in your eyes
as you relax the arch of your back,
I cannot remember a single moment
Where you made me feel anything
Except not good enough.

Love is an orange tree.
Its fruits are cherished,
Handled delicately
Leaving only few with bruises.
Collected conservatively
Leaving none to spoil in the sun.
In time, with rich nourishment
Plenty of water, and diligent care
The tree will yield great fruit
To be devoured or savored
As often as you please.

Love is not the fruit. Love is how the fruit is made.

I’m not the kind of person to blame my own faults on past circumstances, but it does help to go over what might have reinforced bad thinking.

I’ve always had low self-esteem. Slowly, in one life area at a time, that’s getting better. But this personal stuff (friends, love, sex, etc), that’s still the last part to go.

It also doesn’t help that many of the times I’ve been very open about what I wanted it didn’t end well.

One time was met with “you’re moving too fast, emotionally. Let’s just have sex.” Another was met with “I’m not really ready for a relationship.” To which I said, “I’m not asking for a relationship, I just thought we could go out.” To which she said, “so we’re good then.” A third said, “I love you, but I don’t love you like that.” And then shortly afterward, she began seeing her ex boyfriend again. A fourth has been very honest, very straightforward, yet very hung up on someone else. Another was willing to give me anything, as long as I asked for it directly and rarely on her own accord.

I’m not blaming anyone. It’s not like I want anyone to lie to me and give me what I want just because I want it. That’s not fair and, ultimately, not what I want at all.

But now I find I’m genuinely afraid to full put myself out there unless I see that the other person is doing the same. And, if they can’t or won’t for whatever reason, until I make the first step, then we’re in this constant lock where I take one step and then expect one in return, which isn’t at all fair.

So I’m trying to learn to be all of myself openly. I’m learning to put what I want out there with complete disregard for the “rules”. I’m learning to make what I want known, to not expect to receive it just because I want it, and to be okay with not getting it.

But, at the same time, in direct conflict, I’m also learning to pace myself. To understand that, even though my heart is often ready to make big leaps, other people need to take baby steps. I’m learning that everyone else has their quirks and baggage and that, more often than not, letting all the secrets go up front scares people away.

And trying to learn both of these things at the same time is confusing. And overly complicated. And just fucking stupid. at times. It’s hard. And it hurts. And it brings me back to my initial theory that, perhaps, I just need to maintain three different versions of me.

four walls do not provide life.
it doesn’t seep from the foundation.
it doesn’t blow in through the cracks.
it doesn’t drip from the light fixture
every time it rains.

life is made from love and laughter.
life is forged out of respect and admiration.
life is built through trust and participation.

life vibrates like a child’s laughter.
life warms like an oven baking cookies.
life tickles like uncaught rain drops
running down chins below wide open mouths.
life breathes like a heaving chest
from another race from this tree to that
or another tangling of the sheets.

many places are waiting to be filled with life.
others are full of life with room for more.
but only thieves show up empty handed:
ready to fill their arms before moving on
to the next four walls.

(All of the images were edited and the text written in the tiny spaces of free time I have that surrounds and otherwise hectic life. It’s probably very disjointed. So if something doesn’t flow well or doesn’t quite make sense, please let me know and I’ll refine it over the next few weeks.)

I’ve crossed this bridge before. I’ve stood right here and looked across it wondering if this was the right way to go. And here I am again. Doomed to repeat what’s been done before because I can’t remember exactly what led me to the choices I made. There was always just enough good rolled in with the bad to keep me forgetting.

The details are always different of course. That’s what makes the journey interesting. That’s what helps me to forget that I remembered the beginning as though I’d been there just yesterday. Or that the destination will be the same as it was the last time.

In a world where anything can happen, the most unexpected things may seem just as likely as the expected. But they aren’t.

When I begin to expect the unexpected without the understanding that, while luck may play a role, a good life comes from work and dedication. Ancient man starved, shivered, and was restricted to the more hospitable parts of the globe. Learning about fire wasn’t enough to keep warm he had to also learn about fuel. Fire is easy. A spark is easy. Anything can happen, even if it’s unexpected. But once you have that first flame, without fuel it will soon die. Fuel might also happen by chance. But fuel isn’t a one time thing. Again and again, the flame must be refueled. And, even that too, may happen by chance. But I’d rather guarantee my warmth through the hard work of gathering fuel than on the chance that fuel will be provided for me.

But how do I change the pattern? How do I change where I end up and yet still enjoy a walk like this? Every destination is led to by more than one journey. Could the same journey lead to more than one destination? Have I, all this time, been throwing out the good things with the bad believing that the two had to go together? Is it actually possible that they don’t?

This particular path is fairly long. I can turn back at any point, of course. Unless I’ve got a friend meeting me half way, and I never have, even if I get to the very end, eventually, the only option is to turn around and go back. Right back to the same place I started.

And every thing that I saw I see again, though in slightly different light.

Even the things that stand out so much that I remember them don’t stand out enough over the waves of time that I remember every detail. So it all seems new, though, still, vaguely repeated.

But I continue. Because the walk really is so beautiful.

The wide open spaces make me feel free to run or scream or dance. I feel comfortable knowing that the only people that can see me now or those that have stuck by my this far in the journey. There’s some comfort in that mutual understanding of what laid behind us, and what is yet to come.

Eventually, I turn around and head back. Limited food and water and the pressures of all the parts of life that I left behind grab a hold of me. If I keep going, this stops being time to myself and starts turning into an escape. There is far too much that I left behind to run away without, most important of all, my daughter.

The flood of memories that caused me to turn around in the first place reaches and washed over me. I re-live and cherish every moment I’ve shared with my daughter. I honor all the solemn moments that I’ve had with a friend when I felt understood. I smile and laugh at all of the awkward first romances I had and how, even now, I’m complicated and awkward without reason.

I remember the darker times too. I see the beauty in some of them in retrospect. The personal growth, the lessons learned, the happier times that followed because of them. In others I see only their pointless nature and the cruelty of other people.

I imagine my daughter playing in this meadow, laughing and picking the few remaining flowers as though they’d been grown just for her. I imagine an old friend who would be afraid of all the butterflies. Another who would find the shape of the land and the water shed interested. A child would would want to collect every rock until her pockets were bulging. I remember long mountain hikes with my dad. I remember sitting on top of the highest, most precarious rocks we could find, and planting our butts down in the dried bird poop that had collected in this natural perch, just so we could be in that very spot.

I remember every time I’ve walked hand in hand with a friend down unknown paths. I remember every step, every laugh, and every cautious corner.

I did something no man should ever do, yet every man should do at least once: I took of myself. I considered what I was, who I wanted to be, and what parts were silly, unimportant, expendable, and absolutely unwaivering. I considered every human being like a piece to a jigsaw puzzle and I wondered how many lumps and bumps I could cut off of myself and still be considered myself.

Reshaping puzzle pieces isn’t something I’d really wanted to consider. On the surface it feels like letting myself be something other than myself. It’s not until I accept that most of us start off as square pieces that I realize every lobe and dent is the result of intentional change, either as a result of environment, upbringing, or intent.  Being able to instigate change in ourselves is one of the few things that makes us uniquely human. So avoiding doing so is denying ourselves.

In the end, though, I only filed away a few bumps — things that I realized were quite unimportant and causing me more grief and joy. But the thought itself remained. The only way any of us makes it together is by chance, by wear, or by effort. Sometimes we get lucky and we just happen to find another person with roughly the same edges. It’s close enough. The rest works out, somehow. Other times, either by choice or not, we spend time with one another regardless of what does and doesn’t fit. And, in the end, our bumps and valleys rub against the other often enough that they are slowly filed away into matching pieces. The older we get, though, the harder our pieces are set, and the less time we have to wait on erosion. Effort is the only option that remains.

It was the consideration of sacrifice that stopped me. I realized fully that I am not perfect. That, without change, I will never get closer to perfect. I realized that my journey there would be made more interesting and more productive in a group of at least two. I realized that self-sacrifice was eminent. In that same moment, I realized I was the only one. I realized that sacrificing any part of myself worthy of keeping would be a mistake if not done in the light of others like-minded.

So instead of changing myself toward some unknown, inflexible pattern, I opted to get rid of the pieces that I was certain I didn’t need: my resistance to incremental, unintentional change. I softened myself and cut away all the rough edges. I left one barrier, though. Built it up, in fact: That part of me that faces the most forward because I know that what’s left inside is too easily manipulated, too generous, too eager, too willing, to be left in the open facing so many other patterns unprotected.

The rest of the journey was in peace. I enjoyed the birds. I rediscovered small meadows. I felt the sun on my cheeks.

I returned to the bridge. Though it was the same bridge in every way that I could see, something about it felt slightly different.

It’s not a part of me that I like very much and I’ve always worked toward making it better.  This weekend, I think I learned a bit more about what sets me off. I hope that, in this knowledge, I can learn to not get this way.

Stressful situations are, really, my specialty. Whether it’s crying children, urgent business meetings, uncomfortable scenarios, or dangerous life events, I’m at the top of my game. This weekend, I realized that the point where I start to lose it is when I realize that I’m enduring massive stress for, at least in part, the benefit of someone else when they, themselves, are not enduring the same stress. It doesn’t really even have to be their fault that they aren’t there to help or aren’t helping in a manner that I see fit. The fact that I’m doing something very stressful for someone else without their support seems to really irritate me. I can withstand some of it, especially if there is relief and I realize I was wrong. But, once it gets past a point, it seems like there’s no return.

On the worst side of it, I can remember very stressful times with my Ex when we were running out of time to plan something, or in the middle of plans that were being destroyed for whatever reason and she would just be texting on her phone. I don’t even know if there was anything she could do. But the simple fact that my brain was running as fast as it could trying to figure out our mutual problem while she was doing the very opposite of that would drive me over the wall. Or, when I was working my butt off to get us out of debt only to see money carelessly wasted in other areas on things like late fees because she’d forgot to pay a bill on time or something. I don’t mean to suggest she was doing anything wrong — or rather, I don’t mean to say that anyone exhibiting this same behavior is doing something wrong. In this case, wrong or right didn’t even matter. It was perception. I felt like I was doing everything while she was doing nothing — even if her text messages and absent-minded bill paying were due to her being on the verge of curing cancer.

So Saturday didn’t start off well. It took me six hours to pack the car to  go camping. Way longer than it should have. I felt like my daughter was being neglected the entire time. If had just been her and I involved, I could have made decisions that would have solved problems. But there were people counting on me to do what I was doing and to do it right, even if they weren’t helping me do it. The more I stressed and the more I felt like I was neglecting my daughter the more I snapped. I even got upset with her a few times when I panicked because I wasn’t immediately sure if she was outside with me or inside the house.

Finally on the road, I got better. But, like I said, once I get there, it takes a lot to get me back down. As soon as one little thing went wrong I was over the line again. And a lot of little things went wrong. From not finding an important item at the store, to having to repack the car, to the camp ground being booked solid along with every other campground within a 1 hour radius. As each new thing went wrong, not only was I already on the edge, but I still felt unsupported. So I just got worse and worse and worse. Even once we got there and things should have been getting better, I felt like I was doing more than my share. Normally, I tolerate doing more than my share very well. But, being already past the line, I just couldn’t take it.

My daughter picks up on my bad mood. At first she’s really sweet and she tries to remind me that everything is okay. And that should be enough. But I care too much about other people, that I fall right back into it. Eventually, she stops being able to help and finds her own bad mood. After everything was done all that was left was to enjoy the evening and relax. But she and I were both in such bad moods that we just couldn’t. She was on edge and I was trying to climb down. Eventually, we opted to isolate ourselves by going to bed.

That, of course, solved everything. Not the sleeping part. Just taking out every other factor but us. We snuggled in bed and laughed and looked at the stars and talked about dragon flies. I enjoyed those thirty minutes so much that it made me incredibly sad that I couldn’t have just let the rest of my day be that good.

Altruism is at my very core. But with it comes my inability to deal with people who are unwilling to handle themselves. Unfortunately, altruism attracts people unwilling to do things for themselves. And that leaves me in a mess. I need to learn to embrace egoism or learn to be less concerned with the outcome of my altruism understanding that, even if I don’t help as much as I want to, they are no worse off than they were and, of course, can walk away from my help at any time. I need to learn to shrink the circle around that which I feel responsible for. I need to learn to tell people “I can’t” even if that ruins it for them. I need to learn to be altruistic in planning and preparation and then hold on to what matters most during execution of those plans.

In order to get it right I’m going to have to be very conscious about it at first, which will feel awkward to me, and maybe even to others too. But it’s important.

A friend recently made the analogy of the parent who misses the recital because they are working over time to pay for the costume. I wonder if working overtime is even worth it. Maybe we should just skip the recital entirely? At the same time, I want my kid to have everything those other kids have, and more. And “recital” works it’s way into that list, some how, even though deep down I know the ways and means are almost always more important than the ends.

So I fight with myself over what I should spend what little time and money I have on. Most days I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out that my “corporate career” doesn’t matter at all. I’m employable, I can do almost anything, giving up any more of myself than is absolutely required doesn’t get me where I want to be. I don’t need to be rich — at least not in societies standards — and I don’t need to be famous among anyone except the people I care about.

But, for example, do I throw money and values down the drain and eat at restaurants for every single meal so my daughter and I can spend more time together and get more done? Or do I show my daughter that meals at home are the best way to eat healthy, save money, and spend time together, even if that means almost all of our time every evening is spent dealing with food buying, preparation, eating, and clean up?

In the best possible world, we’d eat out one meal a week, and join together with other like minded families to cover the others. The way I see it, it’s almost as easy to cook for 1 family as it is for 6. If I can cook one meal a week for 6 families, and have meals cooked for me in the homes of people we love and care about for all of the others, that’d be ideal. Each of those families, presumably, would benefit in the same way I do, cooking only one meal a week, and sharing with others for the rest. And the children of the cooking parents are surrounded by others who love them and play with them and care for them while that parent is cooking a meal. As awesome as this idea sounds, I can’t even find one person willing to share in this with me, let alone 6. Now I’m on my soapbox, though.

This same concept spreads over all of life. My daughter would be quite happy watching television for every waking hour of the day. And I know plenty of kids who do just that. But that’s not really the life I want for her. I’d prefer to get her outside, let her feel the grass on her feet, make up stories in the clouds, and seek out adventures behind the trees. But she watches TV at school. She watches TV at her mom’s house. She sees TVs in stores and malls and in the homes of other people. Even if we were to throw out all of our TVs, she’d still have them in her life, and I’d still be the bad guy who doesn’t let her have it. So, do I be the bad guy and endure the “fight” or do I just join her in what she wants?

There’s a division in adult time too. I know how important adult time is. It’s something that our society has forced out of daily life leaving many moms (and some dads) practically stranded in isolated worlds — another soapbox, so I’ll get off before I get started. Despite the fact that I complain about it more than I praise it, I’m blessed with “forced” adult time as a result of my arrangement with my daughter’s mom. But I’m torn with how to spend it. Do I take care of the messy parts of life to make more time for my daughter when I have her? This seems right, yet it leaves me with no time for myself and takes away the day-to-day-life learning experience that my daughter gets from seeing all aspects of “real” life. Do I try to better my situation in order to allow myself even more time as I whole to spend with my daughter? This seems perfect, but, there’s always so much to do that I’m left feeling guilty when the time comes. Do I spend it giving some adult time to the single moms and dads that I care about that never seem to get enough? I try to do so when I have my daughter, since it’s built in in those times anyway. But, I wouldn’t mind doing so in my adult time too.

Many days, I feel good about the choices I make. I feel good about the values I give to my daughter, the support I offer to others, and the life that I’m building for myself, my kid, and for those friends who desire to share — truly share — in it with me. But other times I feel like I’m spread so thin in so many directions that I’m failing at everything. I’m not the photographer I could be. I’m not the employee I could be. I’m not the programmer I could be. I’m not the friend I could be. I’m not the poet I could be. I’m not the lover I could be. I’m not the father I could be. Instead of being really good at something, I’m failing at almost everything.

I don’t think I’ve been as hurt as I was in a long, long time when someone made me feel like less of a father because I had “shared custody”. It was as though they were saying “not only are you failing at everything, you aren’t even a full time parent like I am”.

I am ruled by Guilt. This much, at least, is obvious.

(inspired, in part, by these beautiful words of a beautiful woman.)