Random Notes From Rawai #2

I am sitting on the side of the road. My eyes are closed and I can hear the gentle strum of a breeze beating against the lethargic fronds above. I come hear everyday to buy a few sodas for the dinner we have been eating with my wife, her parents and the girls. The house/store belongs to an old Thai couple; out here in Rawai, where we are staying, there are no Tattoo shops, Internet Cafes, Massage parlors, or Tour operators.

Our villa, a small house, is in a residential area and this shop operates outside this couple’s house. The man is always shirtless and wearing a sarong. He chastised me in broken English the other day for not buying beer. But back to the story, I am sitting out front getting some respite form the energy sucking commotion that comes from hanging out with two kids under five all day, everyday. It is quiet, the weather is perfect and it feels nice to let my thoughts doggie paddle in mind a few minutes each day. Here is what they said:

Let whitey have their Protestant work ethic. That dog don’t hunt down here in the tropics. Down here there is little need to get things one. There is sunbaked skin, lapping waves, and strong urges to nap and let the day pass with little angst. Yes, I know these are the musing of a man on vacation, but really what do we in “The West” for lack of a better word have stuck up our asses about schedules, efficiency, and hard work. I have been privy live in several expat communities who condescendingly  chastise the “locals” for being on (Insert tropical Clime) time. As if not being led by the stress of industry is some sort of moral flaw. I'll take it any day.

I watch a young family pass by on a scooter, the youngest mouth a gape swallowing the wind by the mouthful. Her shirtless dad all smiles. Behind me an old lady naps on her porch. My muscles are sore from swimming in the ocean and my skin is sun-baked. I don’t wan to turn this into a political treatise on the misguided superiority complex of colonialism and the true nature of humanity, so I will let it go. This was a thought I had while watching the road go by.

Next one:

So much talk about reforming education. Technology, Networks, Computers. Blah, blah, blah. Here’s an idea: send kids out into the world. Forget the Skype chat, take a group of kids and have them live in Phuket for a summer. Let them waste some time on a beach, start a business, learn to surf, make a film. Let them talk to people of other cultures, not research them on wikipedia. Let them learn to scuba dive, monitor a reef, or play with water colors. Weeks without walls are good, but only scratch the surface. True education is about authentic life and experience and the classroom is about neither. I have not thought out what this pedagogy will look like, but I know that travel is the best teacher in the world.

That’s about it. It is now dark and the music is loud and festive. I am calm and energized. Just felt the need to shed some thoughts.

A Drift in the Sea

Sometimes things happen in the world and are highlighted on the Internet that are perhaps better ignored. And seeing that I am awash in a Zen like state of summer sun-drenched bliss, I know I really should let this one go, but I just can't.

How can you ignore something that shows a little girl in a video who is using a day of prayer to make sure that her father loves her? I don't have much to say on the topic, except that things must be in a bad way when a government official sponsors an event claiming that the very government he has sworn an oath to uphold is in such a state of crisis that only the hand of his god can save it. He claims that as an elected official he understand the limitations of government when it comes to spiritual matters, then goes on to make a list of problems: financial crises, natural disasters, terrorism, depression- in the face of which he is powerless.

His civic irresponsibility is not even the worst part of the video. The worst part is the barrage of people questioning why this is happening to them. Who is responsible? What can they do? Their answer? Not to study history and politics and economics or to organize within their communities, but to pray. We have a right-wing republican government official telling his base not to question the actions of the government he represents. 

Not sure what I expect to come of this post. I know I don't want it to turn into some kind of religious debate. I understand now that those go nowhere. I am just jaw dropped perplexed at how strange America seems to me these days. I know, I know this is not a true reflection of Americans or even Christians, but...I don't know.  See for yourself and tell me what you think.



Prayer might help some people come to peace with their spiritual issues; I can respect that, but social activism needs a bit more action and education. Go ahead call me a hypocrite. Who is to say that praying is any less effective than signing a Facebook petition?  Either way, seems to me we need a bit more action and organization.

Maybe you can salvage some kind of decent discussion from my ramblings. I just knew I couldn't let it go by without some comment.

Calm and Endless

I am standing on the bow of a garish tourist boat called the Phi Phi Cruiser III. My mind is flush with memories and anxiety. Kaia stands in front of me, her hair alive with the wind, shines a shade of gold reserved for fairy tales. Below us on a lower deck a gang of young tanned young men bask in the ease of irresponsibility.

The ocean is calm and endless. I see such beauty in its bleak emptiness. Kaia seems a bit bored; she squints her eyes and stares forward searching for the islands I promised her. Last time I was in this spot of the earth, I was leaving Phi Phi a bit shell shocked. I am not sure why I need to go back. Not sure what I hope to see.

I spark up a conversation with a rosy red rotund woman from South Africa. She compliments Kaia on her manners and beautiful eyes. I thank her, as if I have had anything to do with either. The conversation travels to Mozambique, Madagascar and the her trip on a fifty foot catamaran leaving the Seychelles. She seems to have a difficult time deciphering our life. Usually where are you from is so much less eventful- born in Iran, raised in California, wife from Milwaukee, met in Mozambique, one daughter born in Malaysia, the other in Qatar, now living in Jakarta. 

I can't help but tell her about the Tsunami. Not sure why I do it. People seem to weave such drama about that day, and who am I kidding I enjoy it. To see their eyes light up as they place themselves in the halo of what happened to us. I guess I have never really felt as blessed as how others feel when they hear our story for the first time. They concocted tales of faith and destiny. She is silent. The wind blows. I am not sure if Kaia heard the story, if she did she doesn't say anything.

"You are doing good work," she says at the end of her thoughts. "I don't know you, but I can see it in your face and your voice, by your lovely daughter, whatever you are doing...it is good and important."

I feel loved. Here is it, on this perfect Tuesday morning, but by this complete stranger I feel loved. It feels nice. "Thank you," I say. "I am doing the best I can."

"You should write a book!"

"I am!" I cannot control the excitement in my voice. We stare at the sea in silence for a few minutes more, before I head back down to the lower deck to get Kaia out of the sun. She said that she would look up my name, so she can look for the book, but I do not see her again.

Phi Phi itself was quiet and drab. The luster and the shine left behind in nostalgia and broken memories. We ate a mediocre lunch. I walked Kaia out into the lagoon, looking at where the wave came in and thought about luck. It all sounds too dramatic even for me. I was here years ago and I am here again now with this beautiful young child, what else does this story need?

Coda: The back of the boat is crazy as Arabs and Indians who have never swam, scream jumping onto the dead reef. They are covered in clothing and head scarves. Kept a float not by any sense of buoyancy, but by artificial orange devices none of them seem to trust.

Kaia and I quietly put on our masks and fins in a corner. I jump in and ask her if she is ready. She places her mask on her tiny face and deftly makes sure there is no hair at the edges,  just like I have taught her in the pool.  She nods her head. I can tell she is scared, but before I can double check, she is in the water and swimming away from the crowd. I can see her little finger pointing at the school of fish who flock to us and our soggy pieces of bread.

We swim away from the crowd and I have never been so proud. Here is my beautiful little mermaid swimming all on her own, without a life jacket because she said it made it hard for her to swim, in the wide open ocean. She takes a few dives and bobs effortlessly at the surface.

"Look dad! There are thousands of them."

We swim a while as I watch her gain confidence. I think about fear and what a wasted emotion it is. I watch the others bob like orange turtles stuck in their shells. I think about the work I do.  I sum it up in one simple line, "Live fearlessly."



Later, some guy jumps off the deck. A little five foot jump, but I can see that Kaia has noticed. "You wanna jump? I'll hold your hand." Hands in her mouth, nervous, smiling devilishly, she nods.

Standing on the edge, holding hands, I say, "You don't have to you know. I know it feels scary. All I have to say is that sometimes, usually actually, when we do something that scares us, it feels really good afterwards. It is your choice. You have been brave enough for one day."

I am holding her hand and we are ten feet underwater. We kick our feet and shoot to the surface and hear a cheer from a young couple who watched us jump. "Atta girl!" The man shouts. Kaia smiles and asks if we can do it again to show mommy.

Who know, maybe the lady was right. Maybe I am doing something right.

Cross posted at Teacher Dad 

Treme

I can be a little obsessive; just ask anyone who knows me. I find something I like, and I jump in and devour everything I can about said topic or idea. It is not news that I have been obsessed with David Simon for some time. It started with The Wire, the greatest television show that has ever been on TV, then I moved on to reading The Corner. Before watching his mini-series called Generation Kill, I read the book of the same name by Evan Wright. From wikipedia:

Simon is known for his realistic dialogue and journalistic approach to writing. He says that authenticity is paramount and that he writes not with a general audience in mind but with the opinions of his subjects as his priority. He has described his extensive use of real anecdotes and characters in his writing as "stealing life".

David Simon

What's not to love? The man is a genius and whatever he touches turns to gold, so even I was surprised that it took me over a year to "get to" Treme, Simon's latest opus into the lives of a group of musicians, amongst others, in post-Katrina New Orleans. My wife and I have been catching up for the last few weeks. Watching a few episodes every night. We tap our toes and get ready for the gritty emotional roller coaster that only David Simon can deliver.

Like The Wire, what Simon does best is show the macro within the beautiful simplicity of the micro. He attacks large political issues, not with journalistic aggression, but with the simple finesse of fiction. We are allowed to see his characters for what they are- we see ourselves with all our weaknesses and courage. There are no villains or heroes in Simo'sn shows only human beings.  Never one to paint humanity with shades of stereotypical flatness, Simon's characters act as mirrors for us all. The cast of Treme is no different. These are broken people who live because of the suffering they face not despite of it.

Simon effortlessly weaves their stories through a series of interwoven plot lines. The obvious connections are Katrina, music and race, but Treme is more than a show about New Orleans. Yes, the show does a remarkable job of exposing the history of the city, including rich cultural elements such as Mardi Gras Indians, cuisine, and Jazz, but more than that Treme is as authentic a slice of life as we will ever see in fiction.(Side note- He has even written the perfect character for Steve Zahn)

Now that we are caught up to the most recent episode, and I have to wait till Sunday night for the next one, I feel the need to fill the hole left in my life without the cast of Treme. This is where the obsession begins. Never a huge fan of Jazz, I have chosen to find some music that reminds me of the Annie character. What better way to do this than to explore the music of Steve Earle who is on the show himself as a street musician? I have been pleasantly surprised by his catalog.

After a Twitter and Facebook request for a "good Cajun bluegrass folky band with fiddle, accordion, banjo, guitar, bass, and clarinet?" A friend sent me Old Crow Medicine Show, not from New Orleans, but they fit the bill perfectly; they are exactly what I was looking for. Listening to these guys now, and they are amazing.



I have downloaded a Zydeco and Cajun greatest hits, but am I still looking for any music ya'll recommend.Willing to enter the New Orleans Jazz scene so any recommendations in that field would be great.

I am now following nearly every member of the cast, including all the chefs, on Twitter and find it find cool that they all follow each other. Wendell Pierce is actually a musician and community organizer. It appears Simon has once again blurred the lines of fact and fiction. So if you love music, food, history, politics, love, suffering- in short if you have a soul, Treme will feed it.

It will be hard enough to wait till Sunday for the next episode, but what will I do when I have to wait for season three.

Best Show Currently on Television

In addition to music recommendations, I would love to foster a conversation about what you love about the show. If you have never seen an episode, please leave a comment vowing you will start tonight! 

Random Notes From Rawai #1

"Where are you from?"
"California, San Francisco. Bay Area. Born in Iran, but raised in a town called San Rafael, but I currently live in Jakarta."
He stares into the distance at a passing boat. We are in Rawai on Phuket Island.
"We don't get many Americans here."

That was yesterday morning as I was waiting for a few chocolate croissants and a latte to take back to the house. It is now almost eight pm; it feels like midnight. My skin is toasting to its natural color- a  cappuccino shy of milk. The girls are asleep. I am listening to some songs by Steve Earle and the pool ripples beyond the glow of this machine.

I haven't much to say, but feel the need to sharpen this knife nonetheless. I was supposed to be working on the book, but I keep making excuses- focusing on these stretching exercises more than the main event. A few hours ago, Kaia and I sat on the side of the road on the motorbike watching a man wash a baby elephant. We were our way back from a reconnaissance trip to Kata Noi, before that we had surfed the waves at Nai Hern beach. I am loving this southern tip of Phuket. Rawai is a quiet sleepy town distant from the nonsense at Patong and even Kata. We are staying at a little house in a local neighborhood, a five minute ride from a nearly empty beach. It is a bit windy, so we are deprived of the tranquil aqua waters this place is known for, but a little tumble in the surf never hurt anyone.

The nights are filled with music and these words. I am missing my guitar as I usually do, think it might be time for a travel guitar. It's when we are without our instruments that we feel the need to sing.

Let this little light of mine shine and lead you against the night

Maybe someones watching and wondering what I got
Maybe this is why I'm here on earth maybe not



Not sure whether it is angst or understanding that forces me to push through these tender nights, but it feels natural to take a few minutes each night to let a few ideas spill from me. Apparently, the world rolls on beyond the waters of this island, but the events there matter little to me. The air is warm and the hours pass slowly. The mind is still running a bit too fast, worried about "doing" things, but I am sure with time it too will quiet down and halt to a slow crawl.

Till then there is little but the struggle to document each passing moment in song and poetry. There is this quickly fading and impermanent post, lost in the shuffle of so many others like it.  Another pixel lost in this ever expanding eternity.

Would you hear my voice
Come through the music?
Would you hold it near
As it were your own?

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again

If I knew the way, I would take you home...

I Feel Sorry For Mountains

Cross posted at Dear Kaia-

We took the motorbike out to the beach again today, just you and me. You wanted to start with a quick sandcastle, but quickly gave in to the lure of the ocean. The waves were a bit big and I could tell you were scared. I had sworn to myself not to push too hard this trip, so to let you find your comfort zone yourself. The ocean can be intimidating and I want you to find your place in it on your own.

We started timidly. Holding hands. Ankle deep. Running back to the safety of the shore. Your eyes sparkled and your yelps were uncontrollable. I watched as you looked from the waves to the horizon, amazed that anything could be so vast and powerful.

Knee deep now. The water sprays your face. You lick your lips and wipe away the foam. You let go of my hand and feel the water with both hands.

"Try just swimming around here. If you feel like you are losing control, just stand up."
"I don't want to."
"Okay than, just hold my hand."
"Can we go further out?"
"We can go as far as you want."

Waste deep. You are scared and excited. You let go of my hand and quickly doggie paddle about, springing up at the first sign of a breaking wave. The weather is perfect. The sun plays hide and seek behind the clouds. The next wave knocks you down. You face is underwater. I see your feet pop up. I am sure that our day in the surf is over. You spring up, wiping the water from your face. You are laughing.

"Never fight the ocean. It is is too strong. If you try and stand up to it, it will knock you down and you will lose control. The secret is to go with its flow. Swim with the waves. Don't try to be still. Move. Flow. Kick."

You are listening. Watching the waves. Weighing your options. Next set-incoming. You turn your back slowly and jump forward to catch a wave. You kick holding your head above the water. You go under, but you spring back up. I am so proud of you.  Later, we are sitting in the wet sand as the tail end of waves lap up against our bodies.

"Isn't it amazing that all these pieces of  sand are just tiny pieces of rocks from old mountains? The ocean keeps smashing against the earth turning it into sand."
"Yeah, but I feel sorry for mountains turned into sand." You sift the tiny pebbles through your hands.
"Where do new mountains come from?"
"Pieces of the earth are always moving and when they bump up against each other they form mountains like this." I show you with my hands.
"Can we go back in the waves? I want to practicing going with the flow."

Wild Things

The role of the writer, as I see it, is to harness the inexplicable and give shape to the unnameable. The trouble is that the act of creating images from fleeting moments of wonder is an impossible feat. Many have tried, some more successful than others, but reality is simply too grand in scope to be portrayed using petty tools such as words.

How can language ever be enough to share the feeling of riding a motorbike through the jungled roads of Phuket with your five year old daughter gripping your hands, as the tender golden soft light of the sun falls from the leaves like drops from a balmy rainstorm? Robust clouds of white and grey give chase, the wind on your faces as you whisper, "Are you okay?"  You give the accelerator a gentle pull. Coming down the hill the vast ocean sparkles and waves caress the patient earth. She takes her helmet off as you stop to admire the sea. How can these words possibly explain the confidence with which she swings her hair and carries the helmet on her wrist?

Back on the bike, you smell burning garbage and coconut rusks, the grilled shellfish and roasting chili peppers. You are aware that this very moment is being engraved onto her consciousness and shaping her dreams. The notion of risk taking has been forever altered as you check and re-check the mirrors, make sure to slow down around each turn, but you cannot ever be too careful. After all it is adventure that gives these moments their brightness, you know this, but her safety comes first. Never again will you throw caution to the wind and do things just to see if they can be done.

You think back to the freedom of youth, amazed you were able to navigate the vast loneliness of all that space. You are coming down the hill, "You know I love you right?" The wind is howling, so you whisper again into her ear. The giant red helmet nods affirmative. Men often gripe about domestication and the staleness of family, but you know that these are the moments of rebirth and second shots at childhood. You will show her the world, every inch of it, in all it's wonder. She will be there to grip you tight and nod her head in affirmation every step of the way. Not only a receptacle of your devotion, but also an active agent of love. She is your anchor, your friend, your partner in this reincarnated freedom.

You pull the accelerator once again and howl as tears pool up in your eyes. Beyond the sound of the engine and the wind you here her voice echo what you already know- the things you can never explain. 

Vibrating Through, or Happy Birthday To Me

It’s late. I should be getting to sleep. A tender guitar plucks and strums in my earphones and a voice quivers, building up to a song, a shout, a plea. In fifty-five minutes, the summer solstice will skip across the face of our oh so fragile planet, and I will be one summer older.

My lovely wife is entwined in the sheets, eyes shut and soft of breath. I feel the voice vibrating through my fingers tip as these words flow fast. Yeah, I know quickly is the correct word, but who am I to teach the voice semantics? My mind lately has been shackled with notions of honesty and authenticity again. They say we only present our likeable selves on the interwebs, as we sculpt identities from lumps of shared humanity, but what do I know about what you will like? Who you want me to be?

I can only shed light on the secrets and gifts I have found in the dark corners after thirty-seven summer’s eves. I can only tell tales from the one journey I have chosen to undertake. I wasted so many years lost taking wrong turns and following deadends, so much time lost beneath the rubble of poorly constructed walls keeping me in. Keeping you out. Now that I appear to have found a well-lit and agreeable path, free from the shadows of useless ramifications, what choice do I have but to sing?

image by RyanBSchultz

Earlier tonight, I sat by a shivering pool, beneath the consoling darkness of an oblivious sky letting out a string of thoughts as I watched my kite disappear into the endless celestial ceiling.  Too much? Too flowerily? Like a New Orleans chief, I feel the need to be pretty tonight. To strut my stuff and dance in defiance of all that is pale and cynical. The sun will shine tomorrow and damn it if I will not sing her praises.

They argue that these thoughts, these dreams, these songs, these words, these stories, these posts, these tweets, these status updates are nothing more than superficial expressions of vanity. That we are insignificant.  However, irrelevant my song, I have no choice but to sing. This path I walk is too simple not to share. Too full of love and peace to ignore. The contrast to what I have known too stark.

They complain when we complain. They complain when we praise. They complain. But I will no longer listen to them, only to the voice that sings me to sleep. The one who is stirring your heart as you read. Lives are only immaterial if we hold them inside.

Perhaps I would be more germane in the pages of a book. Maybe on a stage or the grooves of a record? Staring back at myself from a flickering television dressed in fictitious dramas or grotesque commercials. For better or for worse, I have chosen this space to etch my narrative. Coming to you pixel by pixel- images, text and words. But you know all this. There is nothing new in what I say. You have heard the voice your whole life as well.

People paint success by different shades. Some color it by the car they drive or the house they occupy. Some measure the brush strokes by the numbers in bank accounts. Tomorrow is my birthday. I am in Thailand. Outside my room is a small bean shaped pool in which I will spend the day with three of the most amazing people in the world. I will feel the sun on my body and help my littlest feel comfortable in the water. I will hold her tight, until she is ready to let go and float on her own. I will most likely argue with my wife, as we get lost in the frustration and hard work of raising a family. But we will laugh about it later that night as we enjoy the comfort of sleeping children.

When I was twenty-three I joked that I saw no point in living past thirty seven. But tonight, knocking at the gates of this ripe old age, I see the folly and insolence of youth. Too bad we are so often blinded by rage and defiance early in life, when we can be so much better served basking in the comfort and peace of wisdom.

What do I choose to share? Why do I feel the need to share any of it? I just write down what I hear in my heart in hopes that next time you hear it too, you will not feel so all alone. Happy Birthday to me.

Forever

Not sure where to start to really do this gift justice. I want to create something sincere and honest, something that in some way articulates all the things I so often have a difficult time expressing. I am not even sure whether to write directly to you, or to some nebulous audience of strangers and friends. What says,"I love you and appreciate you" best? A poem? Some pictures? Telling our story publicly? A whisper as we fall asleep? Maybe the best thing in a compilation of all these things.

The funny thing about dates and anniversaries is that they only celebrate and highlight that one moment in time, and for us that moment was seven years ago in Las Vegas, as we gathered with friends, had a great time, and committed ourselves to each other. While June 19th, 2004 and the weekend that tagged along with it were so much fun, they don't necessarily capture the amazing ride we have been on since or before.

Wedding Chapel in Vegas

Even though we can say that we have been married for seven years, we both know that a truer date would be sometime in 2000 when we lived together in this tiny little hut in Mozambique. Because it was during those days and nights of peeling garlic and wasting away hours in books and conversations that we were really married.

Our House For Two Years in Mozambique

How can one anniversary date ever capture our travels: Paris, Dominican Republic, Costa Rica, Hawaii, Tunisia, Vietnam, Laos, Malaysia? The list goes on and on. How can this one date capture the life we have built or the two amazing daughters we are raising? How can the date ever express the love and dedication we have shown to the building of  this fine tuned team we have become?

The other day in the car, my mind was a drift, as it often is, and this thought danced into my mind, "It is not love if it is hard work." It made me think about how easy it is to be with you. How easy it is to simply be myself around you. Perhaps it is more romantic to see love as a passionate series of struggles and arguments, but I love the simplicity of our relationship.  People often joke about domestication and the sacrifices that come with marriage, but honestly I have never felt that way about our relationship. We simply are ourselves. Sure,  I have changed dramatically since I met you, but it has all been for the better and because I have wanted, ney, needed to make these changes. You have helped me discover the man I have always wanted to be. You bring out the best in me and challenge me to be the best husband and father I can be. And for that I thank you.

So is this spiel, this rant, this disjointed blog post doing our anniversary justice? I am quiet certain that it is not, but how can it? Would flowers, a ring, or other gifts be better? How can anything, but the very fabric our our lives really show the power of our well functioning marriage? All I can say is that I love you, probably more so than I did seven years ago, even more than I did ten years ago. Our time together is aging like a fine wine. Each day, I notice a hidden flavor here, a lost tannin there. I may not say it often enough, claiming to be too busy with "real life" but you are more than my wife-You are my best friend, my partner, and I am so thankful that you help me grow. Despite the long days, the tantrums, and quiet nights I still look at you like this:



I made a little video, and found it so funny that we don't have as many of these couple pictures since the girls were born, but fear not we can start taking them again when they are older and we pick up where we left off.



I hope this little public rambling is enough to remind you how much I need you. Apparently the "proper" gift for the seventh anniversary is copper and wool. Really? A suggestion was a desk set. How about a great month in Thailand and a life time of doing what we are doing instead?

Oh! Are the readers still here? If you know Mairin and I as a couple, leave some kind words and let's commemorate this special occasion. If you can try and incorporate some kind of copper or wool into your comments that would be great.

Somewhere Between

Note: This was not an easy to post to write. Just couldn't get what I wanted to say quite right. Hoping there is something worthwhile in my textual wrestling match. Perhaps someone can help me in the comments.

A few days ago, I posted a letter I had written to my five year old daughter for her to read when she is older. I was feeling emotional and overcome with pride and needed a space to unload some emotions; they felt warm and soothing; I didn't need to put them down, but still I felt the need to share them publicly. Perhaps I feel that sharing positive emotions like pride and love can help others feel. What you might ask? Perhaps, I think that sharing our lives can help others feel connected, not necessarily to each other, but to our shared emotional pool, or maybe I wanted you to see what a caring father I am, can be, so that your admiration might negate the occasional feeling of guilt I feel for the times I am curt and frustrated and angry with my girls.

I received a few quick tweets about what a great dad I am, and instead of feeling a sense of validation, I felt like I was being dishonest for highlighting only the photoworthy events of our lives. I guess this post is my attempt to balance the notion that fatherhood is all pretty pictures and good times. I hope this post doesn't tarnish the earlier emotions or the perception that people may have of what kind of father I am, but rather I hope this post can be an honest attempt to take a closer look at what it is like to be a dad. To explore the complexity of fatherhood. It is easy to read lists like this and pat ourselves on the back. It doesn't take a father of the year candidate to understand that you should enjoy spending time with your kids. Really, I need to be reminded to tell my kids I love them? Even we can make lists of verbs list like the one below describing what it means to be a great dad:

Listen, understand, hug, ignite, play, inspire, love, guide, comfort, soothe, challenge, entertain. We can add a few inspirational photos and voila! Happy father's day to everyone.

But let's be honest, there are times when we scream and yell and say things that make our kids feel small. It isn't right or good and the  side effects feel terrible. No one likes it when we see the effects of our frustration and anger reflected in our children's faces- mirrors of ourselves when we were kids. Nothing like breaking promises we made to ourselves as children, "I will never do that to my own kids!"we said!

The reality of fatherhood lays somewhere between the Hallmark card and the PSA about emotional abuse. Like most things in life, I am learning that raising children is about vulnerability and honesty. It is about not needing to win all the fights. It is about empowering others before ones self. It is about building up and giving wings. It is about patience, understanding, oh oh here come another list…Fatherhood is about learning how to let go of ego. Isn't everything in life?

It is about letting go of selfishness. For as long as I can remember, my life has been all about me. I think most men can relate to this need to be babied and adored. Who knows, maybe it is beyond gender, but women appear to have an easier time caring for others before themselves, at least the women in my life always have. This male selfishness has been the demise of many relationships. This selfishness has resulted in many lonely nights and hundreds of mediocre poems about being misunderstood.

A few years ago, I made a resolution to once and for all, try to put my selfishness to bed. I vowed to put my daughter in the place that had always been reserved solely for me. No longer would I think of my own needs before hers, but what I am learning is that it takes time and practice to be able to care for others the same way we take care of ourselves. This is what fatherhood is all about- balance. I am learning.

As I get older I am learning how to find a balance between who I am as a man and who I need to be as a father. I think this is where many men struggle. It is for me, the hardest part about being a dad. The realization that my life is no longer just my life alone; that it needs to be shared with my family has not be so easy to get my head around.  I made the vow years ago, but the reality is harder to actualize. There are times when I am doing something, it can be as trivial as uploading a picture or finishing up an email, and my daughter, who may be hungry or tired and whining demands attention. I catch myself saying something like, "Just give me a minute!" I don't take pictures of those moments or write letters about them, but they are also a part of being a dad.

That is all I am trying to say.


Cross posted at Teacher Dad

Happy Father's Day

Dear Dad,

Sometimes is just easier not to say too much. Not to complicate things with so many words. This year, I don't have much to say, but I love you. I miss you and thank you for helping me become who I am.

Don't look too deeply into this song and the words.  I just remember it filling our house and in turn my childhood. I remember it bringing you joy and now as a man and a father it brings me joy too. There is no hidden message in the lyrics. There is no anger. Just love.

Father and Son by intrepidflame

It seems the only gifts I have these days are music and photographs. Thanks for teaching me about both.

Sara by intrepidflame

wish there was a song

wish there was a song
to smear into your pores
wish there were words
to enter you:
burrow,
where you need me most.
tucked in corners
hidden in angles,
you’ll horde me.
mistake me not:
        
         no ordinary parasite
         i’ll feed you
        from within.

sometimes we rattle
the untouchable.
disruption is creation,
bob and dance
bang the drum
clatter the bursting clouds
breeding in routine.

sometimes we  arouse
forgotten promises
crammed in the closet
crank the amp
and bleed the truth.

too much for you?
a truth
your youth?

listen to the reflective echoes
bouncing in our head,
i hear them too.

sometimes we crave for the words
to shoot from the page
and crack like thunder

bleed us dry
leave the flesh
quivering.

it was never
at the bottom of the bottle
never out there
never an escape.

always right here:
in front of us
inside of you
inside of me.