Sometimes
I always was what I never became and therefore was more than what I did and less than what I wanted.
I did not define myself by my job, which, I suppose, is one way to approach the world, just not mine. Titles and credentials matter less to me than character, morality, and substance. And these demand an essence void of pretense or hypocrisy.
I wanted to write.
About my thoughts and feelings. Simple pleasures. An abundance of luck. Rivers of fortune and boulders of strife. Some I glided by, others nearly drowned me.
What is a life but a journey on a moving stream. Water with capricious flow, varying volume, and the power to flood or dry up. Each day different than the last and we, the explorers, get just one run at a particular circumstance.
That last part is unfortunate. If we could have more than one go. Say the thing we thought of just after. Or take back the incautious or untoward. Soften the edges. Or harden them.
But, no.
Last night, I recalled a moment in my childhood. We, the family eating together. My parents chiding us for non-compliant behavior.
Dad: “Elbows off the table.”
Mom: “Not at the dinner table.”
Mom: “Sit up straight.”
Dad: “Don’t scrape your plate.”
Mom: “Chew with your mouth closed.”
The transgressions were small, and I wonder now why they triggered such admonition from my parents. If only I could relive these moments as my older, belligerent self.
Clinton: “Are feet okay?
Clinton: “How about the lunch or breakfast table? Those alright?”
Clinton: “I prefer a good slouch. It’s more natural.”
Clinton: “It’s powdered sugar and butter, old man. Basically dry frosting. I’ll scrape this plate till it shines.”
Clinton: “Okay, that makes sense. I don’t like seeing what people are eating when the food is in their mouths.”
Did anyone think of us as The Pawlicks?
Thinking of it now, we were all so different. My parenting style was and is so divergent from what I experienced.
Were we just individuals who shared food, laughter, and resentments like, I presume, most families?
I don’t know much. Some things. That which I treasure carries meager value among those pursuing status, wealth, or fame.
Honesty, silence, connection.
I walked the other day. To the bookstore. I’m reading more while reading less. Favoring novels to news. I am working through The Atlantic’s list of great American novels. There are 100 listed, and I read slowly. I take my time to write down sentences I like and the words I don’t know.
The diversity of writing styles is expansive, and I’m learning now that some authors I avoided then (for silly reasons) are extraordinary.
This expansion is personal growth. An accretion of wisdom and appreciation.
I want to tell my boys. Live well. Observe more. Choose carefully. Correct mistakes quickly. And take it in. The moments. Never be to busy to experience life’s magic.
I think of them while I walk, my children. And I think of my own parents. The air is colder than a normal Seattle winter. Puddles have frozen at the edges of the sidewalk. The kid in me wants to slam my sneaker down and crack the glassy surface. Dustings of salt and cat litter make the pavement chalky. For some reason, I’m thinking of Philadelphia when my parents lived there.
There’s snow on the ground but the roads are clear. And you can walk, like this. The wind drying your skin. A redness, neither blush nor burn spreading across your face.
Cold, clear memory.
Love.
