These are the things I remember:
Pickle Dates. These took place directly after the Bucking Bronco rides where you would magically transform into a wild bronco and toss Robbie and I around, laughing probably as much as we did. Then, after we were all yelled and screamed out you would say, "Hey, let's have some pickles!" and we would dip into the Klaussen pickle jar to savor its splendid vinegary-salty wonders with contented smiles on our faces.
Teaching me how to ride a bike. I remember your hand on the back of the bike seat, giving me that necessary nudge to get me started, you running alongside my wobbly bike, me oftentimes crashing (one time on my face.) That was pretty bad. But I know one day I took off and there was no stopping me and it was just that little nudge that started me off!
Patooeyland. I remember the look of mischievousness when you told stories about the people who lived in Patooeyland and spoke in Patooey language and I remember the magic and wonder I felt while imagining life in this wondrous place.
Talks on the beach. You would always have a plethora of magazines to share and we would sit and talk and maybe read or stare out at the water and maybe daydream while looking at the endlessness of the horizon.
Going to you when I was 16 after being in Canada and after you and mom had long split up. I had only been seeing you for 2 days a week for awhile and, on this night, I told you that I wanted you to be more in my life. And you cried. It was in that moment that I saw your vulnerability as a man separate from your role as my father. And I felt this deep well of compassion and understood for the first time that you were doing the best you could and that life was just as hard for you as it was for me. And I loved you for this.
Stealing your socks. You always had the greatest argyle sock collection and I would pilfer them from your sock drawer and then subsequently receive endless streams of compliments from friends. And you never seemed to notice or, more likely, if you did, you never said anything.
Helping me through college, buying my first car which was actually a truck with yellow rearview mirrors and a badass loud exhaust system. Making the downpayment for a piece of land right near an active volcano (Lord, have mercy on you for this one), and telling me today that when I left for college you felt like you were losing a friend.
These are the things I remember now, safely stored in the treasure chest of my heart, similar to that treasure chest you brought home for me once that was filled with princess gear - every little girl's ultimate fantasy.
I think maybe I forgot some of these things - they're mixed in with so many other memories. I like pulling them out now, like vintage photographs of friends from long ago. And I smile as I see each one and recognize the beauty and wonder and joy you've imparted to me as a father and as a man on his own unique journey.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
(Happy to be?) Sailing without a rudder
I admit it. I often feel like I'm sailing without a rudder. I've gone through many ideas about this and I'm realizing more and more that the mind alone is not to be trusted. The mind in combination with the heart in combination with the soul, well, that's another story...
The problem is that somewhere along the way (Yes, I'm about to blame my poor parents because at some point, we have to weave our way through the dysfunctional labyrinth of our childhood so we can find our way to our true selves - not who we were told we were supposed to be) I came to believe in the mind. I've always thought I could think my way through things. If I just got the right book. If maybe I slept with that book by my side. Piles and piles of books of all persuasion but mostly self-help these days. I even had a dream once where I was on the beach of my hometown and the Marquis de Sade was buried in the sand alongside that detective guy from the X-Files. I wanted to uncover the X-Files guy (God forbid I uncover the Marquis de Sade with his insanely ravenous, debaucherous ways. Everything about him screamed out "DANGER!" to me at the time.) I had to choose: this grave or that grave. Which one? I chose and started digging and, of course, it was the Marquis de Sade who began to emerge from the sand. And what did I do? I threw books at him - piles and piles to keep him down, to keep him from coming for me. And this is how I dealt with that ravenous part of myself (because, of course, that's what the Marquis represented.) He was (and probably still is though I feel more integrated now) that part of myself that hungered for everything - sex, adventure, everything and all at once. He is my worldly appetite.
My point of this story is that who tells us who we are and what we are supposed to be doing? What's this idea of "supposed to?" Is it familial? cultural? societal? based on our gender? our age? our race? our sexuality? I'm asking this question rhetorically and, at the same time, looking for answers because I find myself struggling with this question of identity and what in the hell I'm "supposed" to be doing with my life. I dread that question people often ask upon meeting for the first time: "So...what is it that you DO?" How the hell am I "supposed" to answer this question? I do a lot of things but do these things define who I am?
In High School, I was a member of almost every possible organization I could be a member of...was it enough? And then in college, I said "fuck it" and became a kind of academic robot, spitting out papers, taking exams, going through the motions. And then I took my degree and went to Europe and weeded for 4.5 months straight in an attempt to unclog my brain. With each weed I pulled, it was like I was calling my soul back to my body. "Here, here, little soul...it's safe to come back now. Here, I'll give you a treat."
This weeding certainly helped but, somehow, I'm still stuck with this existential question of the purpose of my existence. I'm still waiting for the clouds to part and for God's voice to come streaming down, "Melissa Cardwell, wow, I finally found your file. Sorry it's taken me to get back to you on this one. We have quite a backlog here. Ahem, so, your life's purpose (drum roll) is...." I know. This line of thinking is totally absurd. Completely outrageous. It doesn't make any sense. And somehow, I keep waiting. Come on, God, I know you can do it!
Plan B is this: I wake up, I half walk/am half dragged down the street by my wild dogs, watch them sniff and pee and shit on imaginary things that only they can smell, eat breakfast, stare at the massive amount of weeds on my land that I just can't seem to even begin on, contemplate the meaning of existence while staring at the sky, wonder why I feel this angst when I live in such a beautiful place this feeling quickly followed by guilt about feeling this angst, maybe take a shower, head to work while contemplating my existence, then maybe get a couple bodies to rub which, for some unknown reason, heightens my levels of creativity so that I may pursue all avenues of fantastical thinking which propels me to bust this all out in some form of the written word.
Is it just the human condition to always want more and to never be satisfied with what we already have or is it just me? I'm somehow still at the oral phase only it's more metaphorical these days. I don't necessarily want to stick everything in my mouth but I want to FEEL everything. I want to feel the whole world in my hands. I want to go to India and see life and death on the same corner. I want to drink wine while sitting at random fountains in Rome. I want to help the women of Afghanistan to reclaim their power and educate the men so that they stop cutting off the fucking noses and ears of their wives, I want to sit with the dying and support women who are birthing babies into this world. I want to go to the Pyrenees. I want chickens. I want to bathe naked in rivers and pitch my tent in different forests. I want to be a nomad. I want to live in a sustainable ecovillage. And I want a tipi. Is this too much to ask?
So who am I? What do I do? Well, that is an open-ended question, isn't it?
The problem is that somewhere along the way (Yes, I'm about to blame my poor parents because at some point, we have to weave our way through the dysfunctional labyrinth of our childhood so we can find our way to our true selves - not who we were told we were supposed to be) I came to believe in the mind. I've always thought I could think my way through things. If I just got the right book. If maybe I slept with that book by my side. Piles and piles of books of all persuasion but mostly self-help these days. I even had a dream once where I was on the beach of my hometown and the Marquis de Sade was buried in the sand alongside that detective guy from the X-Files. I wanted to uncover the X-Files guy (God forbid I uncover the Marquis de Sade with his insanely ravenous, debaucherous ways. Everything about him screamed out "DANGER!" to me at the time.) I had to choose: this grave or that grave. Which one? I chose and started digging and, of course, it was the Marquis de Sade who began to emerge from the sand. And what did I do? I threw books at him - piles and piles to keep him down, to keep him from coming for me. And this is how I dealt with that ravenous part of myself (because, of course, that's what the Marquis represented.) He was (and probably still is though I feel more integrated now) that part of myself that hungered for everything - sex, adventure, everything and all at once. He is my worldly appetite.
My point of this story is that who tells us who we are and what we are supposed to be doing? What's this idea of "supposed to?" Is it familial? cultural? societal? based on our gender? our age? our race? our sexuality? I'm asking this question rhetorically and, at the same time, looking for answers because I find myself struggling with this question of identity and what in the hell I'm "supposed" to be doing with my life. I dread that question people often ask upon meeting for the first time: "So...what is it that you DO?" How the hell am I "supposed" to answer this question? I do a lot of things but do these things define who I am?
In High School, I was a member of almost every possible organization I could be a member of...was it enough? And then in college, I said "fuck it" and became a kind of academic robot, spitting out papers, taking exams, going through the motions. And then I took my degree and went to Europe and weeded for 4.5 months straight in an attempt to unclog my brain. With each weed I pulled, it was like I was calling my soul back to my body. "Here, here, little soul...it's safe to come back now. Here, I'll give you a treat."
This weeding certainly helped but, somehow, I'm still stuck with this existential question of the purpose of my existence. I'm still waiting for the clouds to part and for God's voice to come streaming down, "Melissa Cardwell, wow, I finally found your file. Sorry it's taken me to get back to you on this one. We have quite a backlog here. Ahem, so, your life's purpose (drum roll) is...." I know. This line of thinking is totally absurd. Completely outrageous. It doesn't make any sense. And somehow, I keep waiting. Come on, God, I know you can do it!
Plan B is this: I wake up, I half walk/am half dragged down the street by my wild dogs, watch them sniff and pee and shit on imaginary things that only they can smell, eat breakfast, stare at the massive amount of weeds on my land that I just can't seem to even begin on, contemplate the meaning of existence while staring at the sky, wonder why I feel this angst when I live in such a beautiful place this feeling quickly followed by guilt about feeling this angst, maybe take a shower, head to work while contemplating my existence, then maybe get a couple bodies to rub which, for some unknown reason, heightens my levels of creativity so that I may pursue all avenues of fantastical thinking which propels me to bust this all out in some form of the written word.
Is it just the human condition to always want more and to never be satisfied with what we already have or is it just me? I'm somehow still at the oral phase only it's more metaphorical these days. I don't necessarily want to stick everything in my mouth but I want to FEEL everything. I want to feel the whole world in my hands. I want to go to India and see life and death on the same corner. I want to drink wine while sitting at random fountains in Rome. I want to help the women of Afghanistan to reclaim their power and educate the men so that they stop cutting off the fucking noses and ears of their wives, I want to sit with the dying and support women who are birthing babies into this world. I want to go to the Pyrenees. I want chickens. I want to bathe naked in rivers and pitch my tent in different forests. I want to be a nomad. I want to live in a sustainable ecovillage. And I want a tipi. Is this too much to ask?
So who am I? What do I do? Well, that is an open-ended question, isn't it?
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