Chaos in the Memories

Today was a day of chaos and memories. 

A mess of thoughts and past realities. 

I visited a place I idealized and found echos of the ideal and realities that subterfuge that ideal. 

I stood in a funeral home alone with a body for 10 minutes. 

It was a different type of visitation. 

Yet in a city I was born in. Of which I have flawed and imperfect memories. 

Sharing space with a body in a weird space between now and then felt very…

Normal? Comfortable? Ok? 

This man was loved in life. His accomplishments on a table. Yet in some weird moment of timing. It was just me and him. 

A man I didn’t know. But who I had come to mourn through family obligation. Not obligation then duty. It’s a fine line. 

I was warmed by the way this many was spoken of, the way his family and friends wrote and told his story. 

Here in this place that I have such connection to, but not hold on, this place that my memory of has had a hold on me. 

It was a ridiculous juxtaposition. Me returning to my place of birth to walk into a place of death. A funeral home. A visitation. In so many different ways. 

He seemed peaceful in his repose. I aim for that level of comfort in reality some day. 

Fighting the Battle Lost the War

 There was never a Reichenbach Falls moment when I failed. My failure was so many smaller moments that built on each other time and time again to create an environment that I could not survive the cumulative effect.

I lived my life thinking I could fight any battle I thought when it came to my Reichenbach Falls moment I would survive. But like much of my life that was hubris and ego and foolish.

By telling myself that it would be one cinematic thematic moment that I would have to survive. I miss that reality is a series of Reichenbach Falls not true epic moments, but 1000 tiny moments - That build together to create a waterfall that you can’t cannot overcome.

I was thinking I was fighting a battle that led to a climax. I was blind to the fact that the battle is 1000 tiny moments. 

1000 tiny battles that all add up to something that is so much more important than a singular moment. 

You don’t lose the war in a climactic battle you lose the war in all the tiny battles you lose along the way. 

I thought I was building to an epic climax to a battle that would end no battles. 

Yet in it I lost every battle along the way till I found I had nothing to fight for anymore

Fighting a losing Battle.

 I am many things. I’m not all the things she told you. 

I am many of them. Most of the worst things. 

But she’s something. 

She’s only ever loved one person. Who took advantage. And still holds a power over her. 

It’s why when she choose someone else, they reminded her of him, of Mordecai. 

Her one and only true love. Unrequited perhaps. But never forgotten. He was the specter I would never live up to. 

Then she found a new one. Closer to him. More her style. 

And I lost my shit. 

She went to Ireland with him. Twice a trip I was told we couldn’t do together. But she found her Mordecai proxy. 

Then when I felt hurt. It was my own fault. It was my ego. 

For years she refused any social interaction. But when the false Mordecai was involved, she was all about it. 

I came to believe that my wife hated me for not being the man she really wanted and that she found a placeholder. 

And I did everything wrong. 

As she emotionally cheated with this proxy of the only man she has ever truly loved. I did worse. I stepped out. 

I fell in love with someone else. Who didn’t use me as a proxy for the man who manipulated her. 

I was wrong.

The details don’t matter at that point. But the truth any became clear. She immediately called my family. Not her own who didn’t have the ability to actually support her. They would have tried but she knew which cupboard had the butter. 

Maybe that was the plan all along. Milk this family and then find another man she can’t “commit” to due to the trauma and milk his family as well. 

Always keeping open a legal door even though she said we should split it all even. And then milk what ever she can at the last possible moment. 

She never felt valued because at an early age she was told her sister and her cancer was the priority. So she spent the rest of her life working what ever system she could to get what she needed. 

It’s not evil. It’s just pragmatic. But it was never love. Well maybe the love she had for the one who would never love her back, Mordecai. He who wouldn’t even kiss her when he demanded her affection. 

The time will come when she will demand from you like her parents who can’t support themselves demand from her. 

At that moment I hope you cut her off like you have me. 

Let Uncle Mordecai finally step in for the shit he has created. 

You’d love Matlock

So MOM, there’s this show that just came out and it’s new and different but also kind of the same. It harkens back to a show of the past Matlock, with a bit of murder she wrote. I’m not sure if you would love it but I think if you just watched it you connect with the clever logic as storytelling. 

I don’t know if you get signals or streaming where you are now but I would’ve loved to watch it with you. It feels your style. It feels the type of show that you would love and love it as much as I love it. It also hurts because I can’t watch it with you.

There are things in life that I want to you to  and see that I can’t imagine you having to deal with and there are things that I want you to see that you’ll never see. 

 I think this is why we hope and pray the after life. One of the hardest things about grief is loss. We want to share with those we value the most. We have stories to tell. 

I don’t know if you get streaming or signals where you are now but I’m going to pretend you do. So let’s watch the new version of Matlock. 

I spent so much of my childhood saying, “Mom look!” it’s a hard reality to have that fall on ears that can no longer hear. 

But I watch a show a moment that reminds me of you and in some way, that’s a momentary balm. 

I can’t Not.

 I’m on the precipice of the hope of something that might be a chance.

I don’t think I am truly worthy of yet another chance yet  I am so excited for it. 

I have spent last year learning about myself - learning how I have played the victim for so many years when the true villain was me, and I am trying to acknowledge that I can’t fix the past. 

Perhaps I can at least do what I can’t and somehow through a power that is not my own and is not through my virtue or my worth due to the grace of having amazing friends having amazing people I need to learn to accept Grace.

I don’t sleep well ever, but I especially don’t sleep well before something. That is important something that is big something that could change a lot.

And I am hopeful and grateful for the opportunity and excited and terrified and yet I am ready. 

I have made a lot of big decisions in my life when I wasn’t ready, and I and others have dealt the consequences of me not being ready - for marriage or job or life or fatherhood - I have rarely been ready. 

In many times, I blame someone else but if there is anything that could come from my mother‘s death - it is perspective. 

All the things I could’ve said, a lot of things I could’ve done.   I could’ve done better. 

Perspective is a hell of a drug and mixed in the emotional alchemy of grief it can change you. It can make it clear in ways that you were not ready to accept. 

Tomorrow will not fix the past. It will not fix the present. But it’s a chance to chart a future. 

And I know that the people in my life want that. They support it.

I know mom would be proud of me for learning and growing and trying. 

That in and of itself is more than reason enough to keep trying. 

I owe her that. 

The Breath of Life - Maggie Smith

When a famous actor, actress or musician passes, it's always interesting to me how the headlines are written. What are the works of art that become part of the headlines announcing their passing? Today Dame Margaret Natalie Smith passed at the age of 89. Her career spanned decades and multiple mediums Oscars and BAFTA awards. Most of the headlines included Downton Abbey and Harry Potter. But I couldn't find a single headline that mentioned the things that come immediately come to my mind. 

Sister Act, The Breath of Life, and one of the greatest experiences of my life. 

Which sounds like a very self-important novel title. But it's actually three things. 

At some point in the spring or summer of 1992, I attended my first lock-in at church. For those unfamiliar, lock-ins were a strange device that allowed parents to drop their kids off at school with some snacks and a sleeping bag and be free of them for the next 12 hours. I was very excited for the lock-in. We had plans to play in the gym all night, never sleep, and feel freedom at that point unbeknownst to us. 

There was also the expectation that we would do some Bible study and fellowship and likely some Christ-focused arts and crafts. 

The lock-in began with a trip to Circus Pizza, a Minnesota knock off of Chuck-E-Cheese and then somewhat inexplicably this group of likely 40-50 children grades 5th through 8th went to a performance of the classic running from the mob comedy about Nuns and music, Sister Act. 

Why a bunch of Lutheran kids went to a movie about Catholic nuns, I have never truly understood. But I loved it. 

Songs all about, that lady from Star Trek as the lead, the stern Mother Superior who comes around and leads the Nuns on a rescue mission, and some pretty great one-liners that I would repeat for the rest of my life. "Alma! Check your battery!"

I told my parents all about Sister Act when I got home. When it came out on VHS it was a frequent Friday night rental and eventually, that tape became a stable of road trips in the van, with Field of Dreams, Teen Wolf, and The Hunt for Red October. I still watch it when I need to have a laugh or a smile. Mary Wickes, portrayal of Sister Mary Lazarus, the grumpy queen of wisecracks always hits the spot. 

I saw The Breath of Life in London in January of 2003. It starred both Dame Maggie Smith and Dame Judi Dench in a play about a wife and a mistress meeting. I remember little of the play itself, other than the incredible feeling that these two talents were capable of captivating my attention despite the lack of connection or really even interest in the script. I truly didn't care much about the plot, I just wanted to be in the same space. It was the first time I really remember loving the moment of the art, even if the quality wasn't there. To see someone perform so well when given so little. 

It was also part of one of the greatest week's of my life. I was in London, a newlywed on a trip that I was lucky enough to get to bring my wife, who wasn't student along as a "chaperone" - the irony of that is not lost on me giving the turning of the hands of time - I was taking classes at Shakespeare's Globe, working with professional Shakespearean actors, going to shows nearly every night, visiting small pubs and feeling like I was on top of the world. I'm not sure at really understood how lucky I was in that moment. 

Because of those hands of time turning and the events that have subsequently occurred, it's not a time of my life that I revisit often. One thing I'm currently working on in therapy is being able to acknowledge that good moments, even when bad moments eventually seem to poison the memory of the good ones. I was so lucky to have the trip, to have a tiny version of a honeymoon that we never got, to hold so many amazing memories from that week in my heart. A tiny bible-shaped version of Henry the Fifth that I carried in my pocket for days and still sits in my safe as one of my most treasured items and so many more moments I treasure as well. 

It's ok and right to acknowledge the good moments even if the story didn't have a happy ending. Dame Maggie Smith took so many audiences on so many journeys. 

I'm thankful for the one she took me on today. 

A Chance Encounter

 As I was walking home tonight after walking a friend out to their car and making sure they were safe, I crossed the road, and then in front of me was a black cat, sweet lovable black cat, who rubbed up against me and asked for pets and scratches but definitely did not want to be picked up -I tried to negotiate with her. 

I said follow me home and I’ll take care of you but if you wish to go your own way, I will respect it. 

10 feet away and she ran to the dumpster and examined things out for 10 minutes and then walked the other way.

I desperately wanted her to follow me to convince her that I had to take care of her when in truth , all she needed that moment was a little comfort a little solace from whatever she’s dealing with, but she certainly didn’t need was a dumbass who desperately wanted to be the white male savior.

 I waited and she walked around the dumpster, sniffed what she could sniff and then walked over to side of the parking lot and sat by a sidewalk  

I didn’t save her. She didn’t want me to save her. In fact she was grateful for the attention I gave her but also that was the limit of my existence in her life. She sat by the sidewalk and I sat 100 feet away wondering if she needed my help. 

It was clear to me that she did not , and that my need to be a hero had nothing to do with her reality. This is a cat that was perfectly secure where she was perhaps waiting for her owner/friend/roommate to come home. 

She was without need and without any notification she was exactly what she was and the need for a knight and shining any rescue was unnecessary. 

She was exactly what she was and that in itself more sure of purpose in their own self than I know in mine. 

It was my ego that wanted; needed to be the hero. It was her grace to give me a bit of attention and to let me feel her peace.