It’s a hot summer

 This is the Nebraska summer heat. I remember it wasn’t here last year. 

Maybe I just blocked it out. Maybe I was out of town on the right days but this dry hair dryer heat, this relentless hot air everywhere. 

It’s not a dry desert heat. It’s not a moist heat like Louisiana it’s a suffocating boring as hell heat.

I remember having a school called off in kindergarten at first grade because this heat was so oppressive and the school didn’t have AC and it was dangerous for the kids to wait outside for the bus even in the early morning. 

I had more school called off in Nebraska in two years than I did in the first six years of snow days in Minnesota. 

It’s an exhausting heat in a different way than a wet heat or a desert heat or even I’m Minnesota heat it’s dry. 

It pulls the moisture out of you. You can’t drink enough water to save your life. 

It’s relentless.

But the relentless feeling is something I’m used to - something that I have accepted. 

Depression is relentless, depression does not give any quarter it just keeps coming and coming and coming. 

Anxiety is relentless it doesn’t care what kind of day you have, it doesn’t care if you’re doing the right thing and finally going to the doctor for the first time and more years than you should probably admit. 

So your blood pressure is through the roof so they now want you to do blood pressure tracking for the next two weeks. 

Your blood pressure is fine when you’re not at the doctor you’re not having to face the fact that you haven’t done a good job of taking care of your body when you’re not having to face the fact that they might know you’re not a good student. 

Suicidal ideation is relentless. It doesn’t stop even when you’re having a good day even when you think that you’ve managed your symptoms you’ve worked on your anxiety. 

You’ve taken steps to minimize the impact that your depression has on you. It’s always just there. 

Everybody else misses a red light and I think man that’s a bummer. For some reason. There’s a tiny little voice inside of my head. That’s says, That’s a bummer. probably should kill yourself. 

That’s not a thing that makes sense and it knows that it doesn’t make sense. 

It’s just playing the numbers game. It’s gonna pop up time and time again and just say maybe this is an option or have you tried this and it never stops cause you know eventually maybe, maybe you will maybe you’ll try - maybe you’ll give in so the heat right now is relentless heat index of 105 to 110. 

As fate would have it the AC in my truck broke last week it finally gave out has been given out for about two years, but it finally gave up the ghost cause it was working real hard and I don’t have the money to fix it. 

So I put my windows down and I live in a town where I drive stoplight to stoplight night exit the exit. 

I don’t have crosswinds every time I hit a red light. I sit there in the relentless heat made the relentless depression with anxiety relentlessly building up in that relentless voice. 

It just says here’s the exit if you want, you could do it if you want, here are five different ways you could. 

so the heat sucks and the relentlessness of it is exhausting and I am drinking more water than I ever have in my life just to stay none pruned, but the relentlessness of the heat has nothing and the battle I fight every day inside my head. 

So I’ll take heat index of 105 and 110. I’ll take drinking a half gallon of water just to be able to pee because the other relentlessness in my life - the other relentless forces - haven’t got me yet and neither will the heat.

An Emotional Vomit - a childish vent

It sucks when you have a solution to a problem, but you can’t actually use it because of life. Or in this case. Death. 

I am on the verge of a spiral; I am maybe in the lowest place I have been in a couple of years. 

I know I need to call someone. I know I need to talk. 

But the only person I want to call is my mom and I can’t call my mom because she’s dead dead so I’m supposed to call the spirits. 

I am supposed to ask God for help. 

I’m supposed to trust in a higher power.

 I am supposed to go back to the same dry well that didn’t save her life.

 I am supposed to trust these imaginary beings. 

These Santa Claus motherfuckers who didn’t show up - who didn’t even allow me to offer my soul for her. 

What kind of shit is that, Satan? 

Literally trading souls is like your main thing, you were just out of the office for all of Summer 2023? Should I have brought a fiddle?!

None of you imaginary motherfuckers, showed up and saved her, but someone has the gall to tell me to ask God for advice. 

And I use the word motherfuckers literally. How is an entire worldwide organization going to say that father, the son and the spirit are one and then one fathered the other. Literally mother fucking in a spiritual sense. Right? 

You think I still trust him? Or you think I still trust in it? 

Every time I have gotten on my knees and begged for someone else’s saving or for someone else not to die - I got nothing. 

Somehow people still think that this is the one thing you say “Just ask God, pray to God”

Every time, I pray to God the line has gone unanswered. 

It tells me I’m either blocked or there’s no one home. 

God is at best an absentee landlord. 

Jesus is the original Nepo Baby, a special child - One who got saddled with way too much responsibility. 

It doesn’t know how to fucking deal with it.

It got told: 

“You gotta go down there and save everyone’s lives from eternal damnation. I also didn’t give you a whole lot of training, so my bad.”

Thanks Jehovah. 

And I’m now here again in a spot where we think well just trust God, trust God's plan.

I don’t trust that motherfucker at all. 

I don’t even trust people. 

I don’t even trust that he exists. 

Let us be honest every time I’ve needed him he’s shown up absent. 

So, maybe my faith isn’t strong enough maybe if I just tried harder, the Easter bunny would be real -the tooth fairy would show up - the God that loves you would exist…

Believe whatever you wanna believe. 

I don’t have any belief left. 

*he says while hoping the thing he hates he believes in will answer* 

The Wolf Within

In a quiet village at the edge of a deep forest lived a young man named Corin. Most days he was steady, thoughtful, and kind. He worked hard, spoke gently, and kept his promises. But once each month, when the moon grew full and bright, Corin felt a stirring inside him — a restless, aching pull he could not explain.

His hands trembled.

His thoughts raced.

His heart beat like a drum calling him somewhere he could not name.

The elders whispered that this was the Wolf Week, a time when even the calmest villagers felt a wildness rise in their blood — a longing for closeness, for touch, for something warm to quiet the cold inside. Some tried to outrun it. Some tried to drown it. Some tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Corin tried all three.

One Wolf Week, desperate to escape the feeling, he ran into the forest. But the trees only echoed his heartbeat back to him. Another month, he tried to bury the feeling in work, but his tools slipped from his hands. Another, he tried to ignore it, but the longing grew teeth.

Finally, Corin went to the oldest woman in the village — Mira, the storyteller — and asked her how to tame the wolf.

Mira shook her head.

“You cannot tame what is natural,” she said. “But you can learn to guide it.”

“How?” Corin asked.

“By remembering that the wolf is not here to destroy you,” she said. “It is here to remind you that you are alive. The danger is not the wolf itself — it is letting the wolf choose your path.”

Corin listened.

So the next Wolf Week, when the longing rose, he did not run. He did not drown it. He did not pretend it wasn’t there. He simply sat with it. He walked the village paths. He breathed. He let the feeling pass through him like a storm that knew how to leave on its own.

And when the moon waned, Corin found that he was still himself — steady, thoughtful, kind — but wiser. He had learned that desire is not a curse, nor a command. It is a visitor. And visitors can be welcomed without being obeyed.

From that day on, whenever the Wolf Week came, Corin nodded to the feeling, honored it, and kept his hands on the reins of his own life.

And the villagers said:

“The man who knows his wolf is safer than the man who denies it.”

In a quiet village at the edge of a deep forest lived a young man named Corin. Most days he was steady, thoughtful, and kind. He worked hard, spoke gently, and kept his promises. But once each month, when the moon grew full and bright, Corin felt a stirring inside him — a restless, aching pull he could not explain.

His hands trembled.

His thoughts raced.

His heart beat like a drum calling him somewhere he could not name.

The elders whispered that this was the Wolf Week, a time when even the calmest villagers felt a wildness rise in their blood — a longing for closeness, for touch, for something warm to quiet the cold inside. Some tried to outrun it. Some tried to drown it. Some tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Corin tried all three

One Wolf Week, desperate to escape the feeling, he ran into the forest. But the trees only echoed his heartbeat back to him. Another month, he tried to bury the feeling in work, but his tools slipped from his hands. Another, he tried to ignore it, but the longing grew teeth.

Finally, Corin went to the oldest woman in the village — Mira, the storyteller — and asked her how to tame the wolf.

Mira shook her head.

“You cannot tame what is natural,” she said. “But you can learn to guide it.”

“How?” Corin asked.

“By remembering that the wolf is not here to destroy you,” she said. “It is here to remind you that you are alive. The danger is not the wolf itself — it is letting the wolf choose your path.”

Corin listened.

So the next Wolf Week, when the longing rose, he did not run. He did not drown it. He did not pretend it wasn’t there. He simply sat with it. He walked the village paths. He breathed. He let the feeling pass through him like a storm that knew how to leave on its own.

And when the moon waned, Corin found that he was still himself — steady, thoughtful, kind — but wiser. He had learned that desire is not a curse, nor a command. It is a visitor. And visitors can be welcomed without being obeyed.

From that day on, whenever the Wolf Week came, Corin nodded to the feeling, honored it, and kept his hands on the reins of his own life.

And the villagers said:

“The man who knows his wolf is safer than the man who denies it.”

Standing in the Rain, Wanting to Help

It’s raining at this live theater production in the park — a show I’m not actually part of, except to announce that it’s starting. I’m here, but I’m not in it. And I desperately wish I could help.

For the last thirty minutes, I’ve been drifting around the edges of the crew, offering to carry things, move things, hold things, anything. But every time, I’ve just been in the way. It’s the emotional equivalent of walking into an operating room and asking, “What can I do?” Everyone has a role. Everyone has a place. And I don’t have one.

It’s not even like me to think I could step into a group that’s spent weeks building symbiosis and collaboration and somehow contribute. But given where I’m at in life — having just lost the most important collaborative experience I’ve had in years — I keep reaching for connection, usefulness, belonging. And every attempt tonight has reminded me that I’m not part of this team.

So now I’m sitting in the backstage room, sheltered from the rain with the electronics and gear, feeling useless.

When you dedicate years of your life to one thing — one relationship, one future, one imagined life — it stops being just a thing. It becomes a structure you build your days around. And when that structure collapses, you suddenly see all the places you could have put your time, even if you wouldn’t have chosen differently back then.

You look at the plate of experience and weight and wonder:

Why did I do what I did?

Why did I pour so much into one thing?

Why does its failure feel like mine?

Yet you can’t be a part of a production that doesn’t have a place for you. You shouldn’t. You aren’t invited and you’re likely gonna make things worse. 

I don’t know that I would have done anything differently. But when you put so much focus on one thing that doesn’t survive, it’s hard not to feel like you didn’t fail. 

And standing here, watching a team move with purpose while I hover on the outside, I’m reminded of how many other things exist — and how many of them I never saw because I was so committed to the one that slipped away.

Tonight, I’m just trying to sit with that truth without letting it swallow me.

Mother’s Day and Emotions

I planned on trying to mostly ignore Mother’s Day again this year. It’s hard enough some days dealing with the grief of losing Mom. But my lil horoscope app had a different idea. 

“Healing comes when you are able to hold grief, love, anger and sadness all in the same container.” 

Since my plans of ignoring those feelings are now sunk, I thought I might try and use this outlet as that container and write about each of these emotions today. 

Grief: 

Really super glad we get to start with the emotion that I understand the least. In fact, let’s come back to it. 

Love: 

I love my mom. I loved my mom. I know I was loved by my mom. I love the life and support and understanding she gave to me. I love that at the end she was ready and at peace with her next soul’s next step. 

I love how she impacted the lives around her. I love that she continually forgave me for my antics, mistakes, mean spirited moments and outright bratty attitude. 

Anger: 

Now this is in my wheelhouse. I know a lot about anger. Had a short temper more then not in my life. But the anger that erupted in my after my mother died has been the hardest to control. My mother gave her life to others. As a teacher, as a friend, as a mother - she continually gave to others. Sometimes to her own detriment. Far too often, I know she put the needs and comfort of others first. 

Yet when it finally came time for her to retire and have some freedom and comfort for herself, cancer took that from her. It was exceedingly cruel of life and proof that karma and god either don’t exist or really suck at their duties. 

Sadness: 

As kid, a therapist once told my parents that my normal level of happiness was naturally just a bit sadder than everyone else. That me at normal or base status would be sad to most people. I’m not so sure that was a great thing for me to internalize but I did. 

If normal me was just a bit below, each death in my life has knocked me down another tenth of a percent or two. 

I get sad when I can’t call my mom. I get sad at all the times I didn’t call her when I could. I am sad that she can’t see me doing something I really enjoy as a job again. 

It makes me sad she can’t see her grandkids grow and be there for them. I am sad how much my relationship with the kids has deteriorated and sad that I can’t talk to her about it. I’m sad that I believe things would be different if she was still here. 

I’m sad every time I hear about someone missing their mother or getting to spend time with her. I’m sad that my faith has eroded to the point that I’m not hopefully of a magically reunion and pretty sure that if that is an option we might be in very different spiritual zip codes. 

The sadness hits without warning and while anger might get the blood boiling, the sadness has the greatest impact on me, in the moment and over time. 

Grief: 

Well shit. Time to try to define this one. I think that is the hardest part of death. I don’t really understand grief. I struggle with it daily and especially during holidays or anniversaries. 

I can’t really define it. I value love. I feel anger. I am engulfed in sadness. But grief. Grief feels like an action word, like a verb. I’m still learning how to do grief. To have grief. To experience grief. 

I feel like it’s a combination of the other three but somehow unique in and of itself. Yet the app tells me that if I somehow hold all these in a container I can heal. Like Corningware? A ziplock bag? Or does my heart count? 

I haven’t really thought of my heart as a vessel or container. And my thoughts and memories are too polluted and chaotic to be something that can contained or be contained. 

To me grief is best described as that container itself; that place I hold my love, anger and sadness about losing and remembering my mother. Yet it’s also supposed to be inside. 

Maybe it’s like putting Pandora’s box inside Schrödinger’s cat. Chaos wrapped in paradox. 

Yeah. That kinda works. 

It’s a puzzle that I lost the pieces to make whole.

One thing they don’t teach you in school—or in the media world where I learned most of what I know—is how to reconcile the past with the present.

Somehow that question led me to a bar with karaoke that started with Disney songs, moved into the most vulgar and aggressive sermon I’ve ever heard, and ended with a room full of half‑awake strangers singing an a cappella version of “Closing Time.”

Today began very differently. I woke up early, pulling myself out of a dream and into a reality I’m still struggling to accept and understand.

For years, I hated my life. My job. My situations and situationships. My problems and my prospects. I had people around me, but my personal economy of worth was, frankly, wrecked.

I had structure, but I kept missing the mark—at work, in relationships, everywhere. Still, I had people.

Now I’ve lost a lot of that structure. I’ve lost important people. I’ve failed in relationships in ways that can’t be fixed right now, and maybe can’t be fixed ever. And yet, for the first time in a long time, I have things I’m genuinely proud of. 

I have a job I love. I have prospects. I’m pushing toward new creative and event‑driven projects. I’m putting myself out there instead of just getting by. 

I’m in the most functional relationship I’ve probably ever had. It only took me until forty‑five to figure out how to be that person.

But the failures—jobs, relationships, timing, all the moments where I didn’t figure it out soon enough—don’t disappear. Some can’t be repaired.

I’m visiting family in Arizona with my dad, my brother, and my girlfriend. It’s been great. A genuinely good vacation. And still, my brain can’t stop circling the shadows in the room. 

I haven’t always been a good son. I haven’t always treated my dad with respect. I’ve been mean. Even if things are good now, the old stuff hangs there like frozen meat in a cooler I can’t stop punching.

I wasn’t a good brother either. I was so self‑absorbed I didn’t notice anything. My brother never came to me for advice when we were kids. That means either I had nothing to offer or I made him feel like he couldn’t come to me. That sticks.

Even though things are good now—better than they’ve been—we’ve all worked on it, and we’re still working on it, those shadows sit at the edge of my mind and poison every good feeling I have. It’s unfair. It’s human. And it happens anyway.

And then there’s the person I pushed away twenty‑six years ago by ghosting before ghosting even had a name. I was so wrapped up in myself I couldn’t even write a goodbye letter. 

Somehow she’s back in my life now, and maybe that’s the thing that makes me believe in God again—but not fully, because we still have a lot of unresolved history. All my relationship failures, most of my own making, all my communication breakdowns, all the selfish impulses I didn’t know I had but definitely indulged—they make me fear that I’m poison.

The overarching problem is the one everyone faces: how do we reconcile the present with the past and still believe in the future. 

How do we stop punishing ourselves for the mistakes, the missed chances, the shame that haunts us, without letting it ruin what’s good right now.

These five days with family have been great. But every night when I try to sleep, I think about the people who aren’t here. The failed relationship with my children, now adults. The fact that my mother is gone. The things I don’t get to fix. 

I push it away, take a walk, try not to let it ruin the moment—but I also don’t want to forget it, because it’s true. It’s real. And the worst part is that I can’t rationalize a way to fix it. I can’t accept it.

Which, in a ridiculous chutes‑and‑ladders way, brings me back to karaoke.

I walked in and people were screaming—well, singing—“I Hate Myself for Loving You.” Later someone did “Friends in Low Places.” And then there was the woman who had the worst karaoke experience I’ve ever seen, and yet the one I understood the most. 

She requested an eight‑minute worship song, and we all got eight minutes of therapy instead. It turned into a sermon, then a grievance, then something like a chaotic musical monologue. At one point she used words I don’t even know how to repeat. She was struggling. And there I was, just trying to decompress, while her trauma milkshake splattered across the entire bar.

It wasn’t enjoyable. Some of the words were indefensible. But I understood it. She was everywhere at once—emotion, memory, pain—pouring it out in a way you don’t usually hear on a karaoke mic. 

I’ve been going to karaoke for twenty‑seven years and I’ve never seen a host take the mic to argue with a singer about just singing the song. But in a lot of ways, it felt like my inner brain made visible. Messy. Uncomfortable. Borderline inappropriate. But honest. You could hear her consciousness spilling out.

And it reminded me: life is messy. Life is hard. Life gets worse when people die or when people decide they don’t want to be in your life anymore, even when they have valid reasons. 

But sometimes people don’t leave. 

Sometimes they come back. 

Sometimes they keep trying.

And just like that woman who turned karaoke into her personal pulpit and therapy session, that’s what it means to be human. We don’t get clean endings. We don’t get consistently happy stories. We don’t get what we expect. 

Sometimes you find yourself identifying with the person having a psychological breakdown in the middle of a praise song at karaoke, and that’s ok. If a bit awful in the moment. 

Like putting a puzzle together when you know you’ve lost some vital pieces. 

Take a walk

 About a month ago my truck wouldn’t start. It made me spiral. I didn’t know why. I didn’t have the money to fix it. But it was safe in a garage and I had planned my life to walk here before I was lucky enough to have a vehicle. 

For the last month I have been forced to walk more. To work, to the store, to go out. 

I have found it is the best thing that could have happened. 

When the truck broke, I began to spiral, so much of my personal freedom has always been tied into having a vehicle. 

Getting a license is a rite of passage. It is the first time as a youth you can have self determination. It is a societal demand, a badge of honor and a badge of shame when you can’t drive. 

The American dogma loves the car, the truck and all that it entails. You aren’t a real adult if you don’t drive. Jobs that don’t even need you to drive will not hire you if you can’t drive. They don’t trust you can make it to work without a vehicle. 

I felt a lot of shame when the truck broke and I couldn’t immediately fix it. 

But then in the midst of my spiral. I started walking again. 

Walking was a big part of me surviving during COVID and unemployment. I went almost 4 years without a car. No cost of insurance, garage, gas all that. 

But I saw so much of the world different when I started to walk. I slowed down and saw things differently. 

In the last month I have discovered that again. I moved here thinking I wouldn’t have a vehicle. I picked my apartment thinking I wouldn’t have a vehicle. 

In the last month I have seen more of my local community through walking than I did in the 13 months of driving. 

It has reminded me how the simple act of walking is a natural therapy. It provides perspective, exercise and peace. 

I am a better me after a walk. After seeing all the vilification of technology and screens over the past several decades, I think that we as a society have missed the point. 

The screens are the red herring. The inherent problem is that we stopped moving, stopped being physical beings, became click and stick. 

I have been better for the walking in the last month. I need to walk. It helps me regulate my darkness, my chaos and makes me breathe. 

Maybe. Maybe. It’s not technology that is killing us. But our lack of connection to being a physical being. Take a walk. See the world that you can’t see when you’re paying attention to the road. 

Forget the shame of shiny vehicles and status. And just take a walk. 

Random Mondays it hurts more.

Grief is a horrible and variable thing. Often you think that you can plan for it, certain days, holidays, anniversaries. These are things you can see coming and plan for the emotions that will likely follow. You don’t always succeed but you know it’s coming. So that’s something. 

For me the worst days are the unexpected. Maybe a random Monday. Like today. Sometimes it’s a fun moment, like a story or moment you want to share with Mom because you know it would make her smile or laugh. Sometimes it’s a confused brain moment, thinking we need to let mom know we are running behind so she doesn’t worry. 

What I have learned is that the worst, the thing that hurts the most, the moments that wreck me are more subtle. They aren’t anniversaries or special dates, they aren’t holidays. They are the moments that I need my mom the most. 

The moment when I want to call her. Just to tell her what I am going through. The times I need her to listen, to give advice, to challenge me or support me. 

Mom and I were a lot alike. And I could drive her insane with my attitude, actions and questions. She could influence and infuriate me with her responses and her patience. 

It sometimes, more than I want to admit, got messy because I got messy. Often she would listen and love even if she didn’t understand. She seemed to innately know when to push back and when to wait for me to wear myself out like a child than doesn’t want to accept the reality of sleep or reality itself. 

I tried to embrace calling her more toward the end and I will never forgive myself for not calling more most of my life. I had this incredible resource and I foolishly thought it would always be there. 

I would give anything to be able to call my mom today. To tell her my thoughts, my fears and my frustrations. And I know I would be better for it, just to have that outlet. To know my mom was listening and there. 

She might not agree or always trust my thoughts, actions, she didn’t always have solutions or the right thing to say. But she was always there. And she always was willing to listen. 

That is such a powerful thing that I miss. 

Call your mom if you can. Please. 

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. 

Luci’s Walk

The light broke through the curtains with an uncomfortable force. Luci’s eyes forced open by the dawn. They blinked hard against the light, trying to adjust. To accept this new reality, cast from the sacred place, disowned, disavowed, discarded. 

As the light and dark adjusted. As they accepted the reality they were now in, things came a bit clearer.

They tried too hard, they grasped for too much and lost. Lost it all. The pain is never ending. Burns that create wounds that never scar over. Raw. Eternal pain. 

As Luci roams the land they have found themselves in. They start to notice their surroundings. They become aware of the other beings. Luci thought they were abandoned here alone, an orphan in a solo orphanage. 

But as they explore they see the others, cautiously at first, from a distance. But they seem familiar. The same energy the same brash adventure. Luci sees a bit of themselves in them. A lot more than they want to admit. 

But Luci is an orphan, a reject, a cautionary tale. This organic animal doesn’t know. 

Yet it reminds Luci of their own misunderstanding of reality and consequences. 

And somehow, Luci knows that they must protect this unique animal, this creation. 

What if all the devil’s temptations are meant to push you back to the light, because they as an abandoned, disowned orphan, know the danger, the risk, the consequences. Maybe the voice of experience is full of sorrow. 

The line between Lucifer the tortured soul and the Holy Spirit is more blurred than we admit. 

A recipe for a Heaven

 Live uphill from a gas station. 

Live within walking distance of a restaurant and a liquor store. 

Live within walking distance of something that makes you believe in something more than yourself. 

Be able to walk to a grocery or farmers market. Have a funeral home not too far away. 

Have music in the air, church, hs band, rock club, even the symphony of a playground or park. 

Have at least one pizza place you can walk to. Two preferable.  Find a place your soul finds quiet. 

Add two things that are specific to the needs of your heart. 

You find all that? You may just have found your heaven. 

What’s in a Hat?

 He’s fit, nearly 6 foot, but in a bar in the north without any country vibe he’s in a cowboy hat. 

There is a sense of vulnerability to the bravado. His jaw line catches looks. He’s got kind eyes. 

Yet that damn hat. It’s a lot to process. 

He waits as if the magic hat will fix the anxiety, the lack of ability to make the first move. 

He seems kind, interested in your story. 

But that damned hat. 

It screams the opposite of what he thinks it does. In this moment. In this place. It’s not the badge he thinks it is. 

Time and place. Audience. Moment. It all matters. 

Turn and time again ladies would engage and talk for a bit and then seemingly unknowingly, look at the hat one more time before they disengaged. 

He closed his tab. Walks out. Trusting the hat. Had he just trusted those eyes, that jawline, himself…it would have been different. 

Maybe he wanted the indifference. The caution. Maybe if you can’t love the hat you can’t love him. 

But that’s a lot of weight to put on a hat. 

Hubris Personified

Imagine if you will, a theater major, in London on a trip to study at the world famous Globe Theater recreation. 

They get one moment on stage alone to deliver the Shakespearean monologue they have been working on for 3 months. 

His wife, newly married is on the trip. He held the engagement ring in his pocket the night he saw a lord of the rings movie in the theater at premiere night. His bride is in the audience waiting to hear her man deliver his Shakespearean monologue on this famous stage. 

Full of confidence and vigor he steps up to the beautiful and ornate double wooden doors. He envisions being like Aragon and pushing open the doors with force and righteous purpose. He’s going to burst onto the stage and deliver the monologue of his life. Impress his bride, his father and his mentor. 

He takes a deep breath, thanking fate for the opportunity, a smaller breath to calm his anxiety and a pause to thank the fates he made it to this moment. 

With the monologue in his tongue and an ego full of vigor and passion he pushed against the doors like a sprinter breaking out of the starting block. 

What he got was a resounding, terrible thud. 

The doors didn’t swing open, he didn’t emerge as a valiant Aragon. 

They just went thud. 

Because they were doors that didn’t push. They were pull. 

He adjusted, pulled and delivered the monologue, a tense victorious stream of words that would have been so much better if everyone hadn’t been giggling about the thud. 

Hubris is a vicious judge. But also seems to have a sense of humor. 

Unprepared and Arrogant

When my first wife and I got married, we agreed to never have children. Neither of us felt that we were prepared to bring another life into this chaotic, horrible world, and I myself didn’t feel prepared to give them any skills to get through it. I felt I would be, a bad parent and was in so many ways I was still a child and unprepared.

Life happened and we brought two amazing beings into life. Both had to struggle to fight to get here to land on this planet of existence each of them probably in another age would not have been allowed opportunity and despite our misgiving, we burst individuals.

 Opportunity and despite our misgiving, we birthed two individuals. I arrogant thought I would figure it out as I went. 

But overtime, it proves that I was right in my first assumption. I was not prepared or ready to be a father or a mentor or anything resembling a support system. I failed both of them repeatedly. 

In spite of my flawed existence and despite my negative influences on them, they have both succeeded are succeeding, thriving, and will thrive.

vilification of my existence, despite my negative influences on them, they have both succeeded - are succeeding, thriving, and will thrive.

It is understandable that neither of them really has much desired of anything to do with me because I have provided not enough and I have also been cast as a villain and derided the entire way .

I take pride and I have never chosen the path of derision and vilification of the other parent. It is clear to me that the only thing on earth that early 20 something me, was right about was that I was not ready and not prepared. and yet I unleashed that stumbling fool of a father upon them.

And yet I unleashed that stumbling fool of a father upon them.

Is it a paradox that I cannot fix? I cannot wish it had happened because then these incredible individuals would not exist. I do wish that I could’ve been better. I do wish so much.