I Love This Cat

There's no better life than being a cat. They're born mature. They don't flake around with the stupid stuff. They just get on with flippin' life like they've been living it forever. They don't sweat the big stuff because they don't care. They sleep during the day and live it up at night--the way it should be. They rest when they need to. They let people know when they don't want to be screwed around with. Cats are sincere. They don't fake their emotions. When they're pissed, they'll let everyone know. When they're bored, they yawn. When they're interested, they play. When they're hungry they eat. When they need relief, they head to the litter box. They don't shower. They don't read. They sometimes watch TV. They don't curse. They don't yell. They don't cry. They sometimes like companionship. When they want to be alone, they find a dark corner. They're brilliant in ever regard. They're low maintenance. They're high on appearances. They don't need groceries. They don't need shoes. They like to watch birds. They dream when it's necessary. Brilliant. They don't make comparisons. They don't set expectations. They don't filter their disappointments. Brilliant. They don't pull punches. They don't insinuate. They don't teeter or totter or flip or flop. They're rock-solid steady. Brilliant. They warm a lap. They chill a fear. They jump when they need to get high. There's no downside to owning a cat. There's no hidden secrets. They are what they are. Wish I could say the same for myself or anyone else I know.

You Better Best Rearrange

Weeks into the Season of Lent and I feel I've contemplated nothing at all concerning Jesus' journey, or my own journey, for that matter. I feel I've abandoned that duty to myself, to my family, friends, community, and to Jesus. Especially in recent years, I feel like I've made good on putting my thoughts to good use. Toward matching them to the moment of time at hand. I feel like I've used the moments of reflection to make wiser choices. To take better-prepared steps forward. To break free of regrets and mistakes. To strengthen myself from the inside and out. But this year I feel lost. I feel I've strayed way off the path. Almost to the point I can't see it any longer, and I'm not sure in which direction I should be looking for it. Still, I know I have to find it again if I want to continue to open my eyes. To continue to see. To continue to believe in something more than day to day or detail to detail. If I don't find it, I'm just going to stray and float and float and stray until there really is no purpose to serve other than satisfying my ego, and I'm not interested in that.

When I look around these days, the view doesn't seem nearly as dark or forebodding as it has in the past. It seems stranger now than ever before, but strange is good. Strange is learning. The view also seems familiar, as if I've been here before, if only for briefly. I have this sense that although I don't fully recoginize everything that's surrounding me these days, I like what is there. And I like the notion that I can explore it deeper to find further meaning. I know exploration is what the path represents. Learning is the path. Knowledge is the path. Belief is the path. I know there are many destinations to which the path could take me, and I know that any of the destinations would probably be the right one for me. But what about everyone else I'm connected to? Does the path hold something for them, as well? I have to figure out how to get to where I'm going and keep what I can while shedding what I must. That's the difficult question: What must stay and what must go?

A Walk In The Park

 

If not for the park located a few blocks from my house, I'm not so sure I'd even like living in my neighborhood much any longer. I don't have anything against my neighbors or even the current physical state of my house; I just no longer want to live in a city. I'm fairly convinced I was made for the country. I'm more sure each day as proof of city life presses in tighter and tighter. I can hear the city louder. I can see more of it every day. More streets, more cars, more houses, more apartments, more people, more sidewalks, more tidy front lawns, more track suit-wearing moms bebopping from one block to the next. More fences, more happy landscapes. More strip malls. More Wal-Marts and Best Buys and cell phones and headphones. I don't want to see them anymore. They're tired. I'm tired. We need a break from one another. But I'm stuck. Fixed. Situated. Immobile for now. A housing market that currently doesn't exist will define you that way. Except for the park down the street. Except for the walking path carved out about a half-mile round in the park down the street. Except for the walking path carved into the federally protected wetlands in the park down the street. Toward the east runs the Salt Creek where ducks and geese swim, beavers build dams, deer slide down the banks to drink, and farmers have built concrete runoffs. Nice. Toward the north and south run nothing but long grass, soggy bottoms, deer tracks, hints of rabbit paths, and geese and black birds too many to count. Well, the long grass runs free up until the Interstate reigns it back in toward the north and a car lot and civilization do the same toward the south. Toward the north lies said neighborhood. My walks around the park are always too short but always renewing. It's not difficult imagining Native Americans or pioneers crossing the land hundreds of years ago. Although minuscule, this area has been relatively untouched since then. The natural barriers, plant life, trees, wildlife . . . everything is orginal. Currently, this park is one of the few places I feel the same.

Buying A Gift For Me?

People have been asking me what I want for Christmas, which for the record, is a nice thing to be asked. That hasn't always been the case, but this isn't a pity writing, just an observation. Anyway, my first reply is usually something brillantly keen, such as, "I don't know." Or, "Um, boy, nothing that I can't think of." Yeah, whatever. I've been putting some thought into this the last few nights, though, and although Christmas is just hours away, I think my answer is "Time." I'd like more time. I'd like more time to do nothing. I'd like more time to spend less time doing things. I'd like more time to spend more time doing things I don't have the time to do. That's what I want. Too bad time isn't for sale. Someone would make a killing. It wouldn't surprise me if someone doesn't figure out a method for doing just that down the road, if they already haven't. But that's what I want. Time. You don't even have to wrap it. Just stick it in an old shoe box; the lid is optional.

Coming Full Circle

Tomorrow my baby turns 1. What a year. What a fabulous 365 days of exploration and discovery. What a fantastic journey it's been already. The joy has been immeasurable. The smiles she has generated I can never repay. The happiness she's invoked every single day I could have never imagined. She's not my first child, but she feels like it. Maybe because I was 40 and more ready. Maybe because I wasn't so easily distracted by matters that don't matter. Maybe because her innocence showed me again there's plenty left in this world that is innocent. I don't know. I don't fully understand her power. I don't begin to know how she could have such a profound influence. I don't really care. I'm content in knowing she's going to be around for another year. I intend to do the same. She's beautiful. She's adorable. She's funny. She's smart. She's resilent. She's everything I hoped. Happy Birthday, RJ. And thank you.

Always Climbing

Some days this photo is entirely how I feel: always climbing up and never really getting anywhere. So much climbing that it's hard to keep the details in perspective. So much climbing, it's hard to feel I'm doing the best I can. So much climbing, the days feel full of nothing but insignificant minutes piling on top of one another. Too many minutes of this nature creeping through. Too many distractions. Too many responsibilities. Too many of too many.

Focus. Breathe. Focus. Breathe. Focus. Breathe.

Keep climbing. Keeping moving forward. Keep in mind where I came from and where I'm moving to. Keep seeing the details in the light they were meant to be viewed. God is in the details. Keep seeing his work. Keep seeing his steps.

What Did You Say?

"People who listen to MP3 players for only five hours a week at a high volume may be doing permanent damage to their hearing. "
 

This from a new study from European Union researchers. I guess you can count me among those who won't be able to hear you sometime down the line. I log more than five hours in one day. The thing is, I don't really care about the risks at the present. Maybe I'm just feeling a little bitter this morning, but most days, I don't really care to hear much of what most people have to say anyway. "Heard it all before" comes to mind. But even when that phrase isn't the case, what newness someone might be saying doesn't interest me, either. I have a pretty good filter for channeling out the crap, but there's just too much of it to filter; it's impossible to get it all. Ah, unless I can't hear any of it.

Yeah, I know: Losing my hearing for the sake of not having to hear a bunch of monkeys recite the standard monkey lines time after time is pretty moronic. About as moronic as the monkey babble being thrown in my direction like little brown monkey wads of poo in the first place.

Election year, check. Monkey poo. Financial crisis, check. Gas prices, check. People losing their homes, check. People losing their jobs, check. All monkey poo. What the hell is there to listen to? Thank god for children. They are the only ones making sense to me these days. Hell, here in Nebraska, though, it's getting harder to even hear the kids speak. Don't like your kid any more? Drop him off at a hospital. Let someone else raise him. (Yeah, right.) Kid not making sense to you? Drop her off at a hospital? Not liking the way junior is turning out? Drop him off a hospital. Little sister not fitting into that peg you're trying to squeeze her into? No problem. Just drop the little myster off at the hospital and carry on with your day. Let someone else worry about the details. Isn't that the way? Hell, parents don't even have to do the dirty work these days. Somewhere along the line, we just started dropping our no-good offspring off at the grandparents. Hell, let grandpappy or grammy cut the ties for good. Nice. No sweat. No mess. Nothing like a little double-abandonment issue to saddle a kid's lifelong journey toward who knows what with.

Yeah, like I wrote, I'm feeling a little bitter and disillusioned this morning for too many reasons to even count, but I'm not so sure sticking a pair of headphones on all day to escape it all, even with the knowledge it may mean I eventually can hear even the positive, not a fair trade-off.

Summer Days, Summer Nights

Summer days, summer nights are gone
Summer days and summer nights are gone - Bob Dylan

What is it about summer coming to an end that sends me into a funk that seemingly lasts until April 21st? Well, living in flippin' Nebraska is one reason. The prospect of spending another winter skirting around in layers of scratchy clothes with sub-zero winds pounding my moral into bits of ice shards nearly makes me cry. The thought of blowing snow off my driveway every other week only adds to the torment. Mix in being cooped up in a house with five other people progressively getting on each other nerves, every-escalating heating bills, shorter days and longer nights, etc., and I'm on the brink of hysterics. Seriously, this dread of winter gets worse every year. 41 years spent with snow, ice, sleet, dirty melting roads, impossibly cold temperatures, frosted windows, cold fingers and toes, and roads unsuitable for driving. Too many. Far too many. For nearly 10 years, I faced this madness with a bald head. Brutal. What the hell am I thinking still living here?

Stay positive. Sledding with my daughter. Discovering new ways to injure ourselves by building ice ramps we shouldn't even consider jumping. Watching my daughter revel in her friends on her birthday. Looking forward to my baby's first birthday. My wife's birthday. Jesus' birthday. New Year's Eve and Day. Valentine's Day. Football. Basketball. Walks in the park with the dogs stuffing their snoots in snow banks, sniffing out some rabbit long since gone. Spying on the deer that live just over the hill and wondering how they're staying alive. Slipping outside at night long enough to witness the stars, knowing this is as close as they'll get all year to my eyesight. Pointing out the Big Dipper to my daughter. Holing up and gaming with my son. It's not all bad. Nothing is.

Still, I was born for the heat. It doesn't intimidate me. It doesn't scare me off. It doesn't send me looking for cooler quarters. I'd sit under a tree in the summertime doing nothing else is able. If I could find a job that paid me enough to work outside, I'd do it in a second. I was meant for being outdoors. Watching the nights shorten themselves depresses me. Feeling the temperatures retreat gives me sadness. Watching my trees slowly regress into skeletons feels tragically wrong. Watching my garden disappear is like watching an old friend slowly drive down the road, knowing it will be a long time before I see him again. Hearing the neighborhood kids raising a din outside less and less is like losing memories. It's still August and I'm already sinking in spirit. Fall, I don't welcome you in the least. I don't welcome you're "pretty" colors and comfortable temperatures. I don't welcome your crispness in the air. You're an enemy, and I will always treat you as such.

SnagFilms Looks Cool

I read about SnagFilms today at the WSJ, and the service/site looks very promising and cool. Grabbed this flick featuring the great Townes Van Zandt. Essentially, SnagFilm lets you grab any movie from its site and post it to your blog, site, etc.

Where Have All The Good Times Gone

Good lord, has it been more than six months since I've last visited the land of Buddha? Where did all the time go? Well, watching a baby grow up mostly, and what a time it has been. Who could have guessed that at my age watching her sprout up and extend all over would be so fulfilling? I would have guessed, that's who. I knew she'd be amazing, and she hasn't disappointed. What a gift. What a life lesson. What a treasure. What a six months. Thanks RJ.

Right Around The Corner . . .

IMG_0368
Originally uploaded by Blaine A. Flamig

If all goes according to plan, I'll be a new father again in a week and a day. That's the time that has been deemed appropriate enough for a birth, and it's as good as any with me. I want to meet my daughter already. I'm hoping she wants to meet me, too. We've been conversing, but it's time I put a face to the name and the squirming she's been doing in her mother's stomach. I think she's anxious to see the world anyway. The other night she nearly punched a hole in her mommy's tummy trying to get out. Great punch this little has already. She'll probably need it in the house she's coming into. Brother and sisters to survive and all. But I have a feeling she'll do just fine and fit in without trouble. I almost think she's more ready than me, and although I wish that wasn't the case, we could have another nine months to prepare and probably wouldn't be ready still. But that's how it goes. Every day when I look at her ultrasound snapshots and every night when I pray for her health and well-being, I'm convinced I'll be ready even when I'm not. I'll always do what's necessary, from day one until I'm out of days. That's a certainty. That's the greatest gift I can giver her. It can't begin to compare with the gifts she has and will give me, but I'll work to make her life everything I can. That's a promise, kiddo.

Another teenager in the house.

It doesn't seem at all possible, but my daughter turned 13 today. Where did the years go? And why do I seem to be asking myself that question so much more lately? I just want the days to slow down. To crawl instead of run. I want the minutes to trudge along, not skip. I want each second to last years. Some days I think I can control time in such ways. Other days I know it's no use even contemplating the notion. I have no power over time. Some days I refuse to even believe in time. Other days, time refuses to believe in me. I've never been someone who's terribly big on birthdays. I'm definitely not a sour-puss who believes "a birthday is just another day," but I'm also aware that a birthday doesn't always turn out special just because it's a birthday. Shouldn't each day be as equally special? Probably. But I'm smart enough to know that doesn't always work out, either. Anyway, I'm grateful for my daughter's birth and for celebrating it. It means I'm around for another day in her life, and so is she. It means that she's in my life, and I'm in hers. It means another opportunity to tell her that she is someone special to me, and I'm grateful for her presence. I wish she was turning three instead of 13, but I'm happy she's in a good place, surrounded by good people, and experiencing good things. Happy Birthday, kid, and many more.

Halloween Is The New X-mas

OK, not really, but in our house, Halloween comes a very close second to Jesus' birthday, at least from the singular notion of having fun. It's become a tradition with my youngest daughter and I to make her costume from scratch rather than buy one. Besides giving us an afternoon to spend together trekking from Goodwill to Goodwill to piece together what we need, we put our money back into an institution that could use it rather than one such as Target or Wal-Mart that doesn't. Hey, no big morality lesson here or anything, but damn if the Goodwill doesn't have a purpose in the world. Better, making her costume forces us to use our own creativity and not rely on others to supply it for us. A much better approach, IMHO. The last couple of Halloweens I've noticed a sadness starting to creep in me, I guess because I began to realize that there weren't too many more years my kids would be actively participating. Not too many more Goodwill-costume adventures or getting out around the neighborhood to collect candy and getting to know our neighbors. Now, with a new baby on the way, I know there are many Halloweens left in my future, and hopefully my older children will help her discover the greatness that is Halloween.

It Figures

Uncle M was in town for probably the first and only time in his or my lifetimes and I missed it. So much I would have liked to ask him or even just thank him for. "Hey M, 'Big Mouth Strikes Again' was so money. Thanks, fella." That's it. That's all I would have really like to him.

Hey M, next time you're in town, how about a little warning. I wouldn't have gotten all creepy fan-stalker on your or anything. Just a quick "thanks," maybe a handshake, and I'd have been on my way. Damn.

The Countdown Is On

Although summer is desperately clinging on, fall is beating down the door. The sun is taking longer each day to greet me and it's going to bed earlier each night. It won't be long until the day's temporary chilliness is a permanent fixture. It also won't be long until our baby-to-be becomes a permanent fixture in our lives. I only wish she was present already. Some days I can picture her face. Smell her new baby skin. Feel the smallness of her hands in the largeness of my own. The anticipation is too much to take some minutes. The fear of how I'll handle this new adventure is momentarily frightening, as well. Baby showers. Constructing cribs. Painting walls. Adding curtains. Buying toys. Cleaning high chairs. Reading, preparing, training, reconditioning. Change, change, change. The move forward was so desperately needed, however. The stagnation that life had somewhat become was full of messages that I'm no where near done evolving. I've known such things for so long, but sometimes putting evolution into motion rather than waiting for it to occur naturally are two entirely different things. I lacked motion. I've found it again. I lacked motivation. I've found it. I lacked vision. I can see again. Thank you little one. Your gifts are already welcomed, and you've yet to arrive.

The morning of my new nightmare . . .

There is no good reason for a man of 40 to start a summer morning in Nebraska by putting on his tennies and running for all he's worth, other than to save his life. That's how my day began, and I'm fulfilled for now. Shape. I have to get in it. I'm not nearly overweight. I'm definitely presentable. But I'm 40, and I have a baby coming. He needs endurance. That I don't own. But I will. One foot in front of the other, despite angry lungs taunting me. Despite shoulders so tight I could pluck them like guitar strings. Despite a head pounding so hard I could rap over the beat. Despite legs so leaden I could erect a tent by their poles. Horrible. Yet, I'm fulfilled for now. Even as my daughters incessantly bicker and battle upstairs, their footsteps so thuddingly heavy the floor might collapse on my head. Even as my dog snores near my feet, relieving himself of pent up gas as he does. (Horrible.) Even as mowers outside cutting brown grass that's too frustrated with heat to grow ruins the silence. (Most horrible.) I'm fulfilled for now.

My little camper is away

And the house is silent. Too silent. Why do I feel so guilty that she's at camp? Maybe because she didn't want to go. Do I think she's having a good time? Probably. But I can't shake the feeling, or more specifically, the sight of her as her mom and I walked away while she was trying to fit in with the rest of the girls already in the cabin. I'm glad she got the top bunk. She always likes the top bunk best. I'm glad we turned around and went back home to get her hat. She loves her hat. And I'm glad she at least knew someone as we stood in line to check in. I'm worried about her cold. I'm worried that she'll get homesick. I'm worried that she'll be sad until she gets back. But she's stronger than me. She's more secure. She's able to adapt. Her tolerance level is amazing. And after all, it is camp. Hell, I wished I'd have been able to stay. Swimming all day. Stomping around in mud. Canoe riding. Zip lines. Midnight polar swims. Hell, what's not to like. Except being away from home, I guess. I miss you, bean.

Winter Park Isn't West Chester, PA . . .

But a vacation is a vacation. WC was our destination of choice this summer, but a baby to be kind of put a kink in those plans. So we're off to Winter Park, and really, is WP that much of a compromise? Nah. The alpine slide awaits, and I have a feeling my kids will wear it out. I'm going to give it a shot, myself.

Why WC in the first place? To visit family, and missing that puts much regret in my bones. I'd rather be there, soaking up the wisdom of June and Marianne. Soaking up the spirit that is there enthusiasm. Soaking up the nature of family. Until next year . . .

Swimming, summer, and exploring.

My kids adore swimming. They go every chance they get now with the weather picking up, steam-wise. Regrettably, we don't have a pool in our backyard (I wouldn't want one if we could manage it), and we don't have a city pool nearby, either. Yet, they've managed to make the connections necessary to get themselves into the few pools we do have nearby. They're resourceful, and I admire that. You have to be in this world. Lesson learned, children. Keep up the good work.

They'll get plenty of swimming this summer, and camping, and camps, and other stuff I didn't get a chance to do regularly. And for that, I'm thankful. That was one of the big reasons I wanted to become a parent. Giving them opportunities I didn't have is a big reason I get out of bed. Some days, it's the only reason. Other days, not so much. On those days, they seem to make their own opportunities. Some times for the better; others the worse. Another lesson learned.

Pregnant Ladies

It's funny how I seem to be noticing pregnant women more these days. They're everywhere. Maybe it's my keen sense of what's to come. Maybe it's my keen sense of not knowing what's to come. At any rate, each time I see a woman expecting child, I'm reminded of my own. I'm also reminded how much younger these women seem than me. I think a lot about being 40 when I'll have these child. I try to comfort myself with the fact that Jimmy Stewart, Hugh Hefner, and the like were great-grandfather age when they helped conceive. I try to forget that they are/were very rich men. I don't know what kind of father Jimmy Stewart was, but I'll compare myself to Heff anyday, although I'm sure his sons aren't complaining of their lineage. I can't offer my child, if he is a son, the same kind of visual perks flooding my house (if you dare call women "visual perks"), but I'll offer him better. If my child is a girl, I'll offer her protection to my death, without question or hestitation. My daughters now could probably verify as much. I'm too involved. Too protective. But I'm not bothered by that. It's my job, and I take it seriously. Too much? As long as they are alive, laughing, and thinking for themselves, I don't really care. Label me an idiot, meddler, overbearing, or extreme. I'll take all of the above for their happiness and well being. I'm sure in hell not handing them over to just any moron without a stitch of character. Won't happen. My girls have too much to offer.