Repetitive Stress Injuries

The Story genetic structure is fraught with chromosomes that wrote a certain weakness of joints into my DNA. Ankles that doth protest mightily at the smallest sign of acceleration beyond anything approaching a brisk walk. Knees that enjoy randomly shooting pain into the surrounding areas because they're just generally assholes. Elbows that suffer morning aches from what I can only assume is prolonged and immobile sleep positions. I basically hit the elderly stage of joint fitness at the ripe old age of 20. Munch has compounded this problem with his incessant need to be carried. Of late, this has manifested in a series of new and varied aches and pains that I would like to chalk up to old age but which I know better.

One day in particular he was feeling especially insecure about anything not involving my arms fully and securely holding him in place against my chest. Things began happening. First, my elbow joint nerves started sending gentle but persistent messages to my brain that I am attempting a strenuous activity (read: any activity at all). Second, a very specific spot in the middle of my back began getting a tad peeved with me. About 15 minutes into holding and walking and gently bouncing, the nerves stepped up the intensity of their messages to the brain center and both elbow and back began exploring a symphony of pain that slowly crescendoed into other joints and tissues. This is about the time my shoulder wanted to be noticed by simulating the feeling of being on fire. Eventually this all crystallized in some sort of pain overload that left my right arm screaming in agony. My right arm is the only useful appendage I have. It is the only appendage with any kind of positive outlook on life. Without my right arm, my left arm and both legs would have given up on living years ago. So, of course, I'm totally fucked.

Now that my right arm was out of commission I had to turn to old lefty. My left arm has basically served as a prop on my torso primarily for aesthetic appeal. If my left arm were to fall off it would only affect me so long as it took my body to come to terms with its new center of gravity. It is less than useless. It cannot throw a ball. It cannot write in any legible fashion. It cannot handle utensils in a manner that would give anyone the impression that I've ever consumed food or liquids before. It cannot be relied upon to offer an adequate handshake. Things my left arm can do: Point in a general direction.

Some diligent and in-depth internet sleuthing has turned up some of the most common causes of RSI:

• The overuse of muscles in our hands, wrists, arms, shoulders, neck, and back are linked to RSI symptoms.
• The area is affected by repeated actions, which are usually preformed on a daily basis over long periods of time.
• The repetitive actions are done in a cold place.
• The individual has to use vibrating equipment.
• Forceful movements are involved.
• Workstations are poorly organized.
• Equipment is badly designed.
• The individual commonly adopts an awkward posture.
• There are not enough rest breaks.

"Work shouldn't hurt," how quaint.

Hahahahhaaahhahahahaha. I'm especially fond of "there are not enough rest breaks." This is not a list of common causes of RSI, this is a list of what you do when taking care of a young baby. The only other thing I can think about after reading this is how people with actual diagnosed RSI conditions actually manage to function in daily life. Additionally, all of the info out there on baby-caused injuries is geared towards mothers who have just given birth. Because only women take care of babies. Regardless, the suggestions are laughably complex or completely ridiculous because the reality is hold him how he wants (which tends to be to one side over the shoulder) or live with a squirming screaming sack of dead weight. No one seems to have any creative advice about what to do once said injuries have set in. Thusly, I'm subsisting on a steady diet of acetaminophen and ibuprofen.

The Most Exhausting Thing I've Ever Done

Wondering why I look so damn tired.

I live in squalor. I don't bathe a lot. Kelly has to tell me when I smell bad enough to shower. I miss meals. I forget whole hours. I wear the same clothes day in and day out until such time as they are puked on, pissed on, or shit on. I no longer glance in the mirror to check the state of my hair and whether or not a hat would be appropriate when leaving the house. And even if I wanted to care about these things, I would not have the energy to care about these things. It is way more helpful and economical at this point to spend my energy doing other things, like sizing up when would be a good time to try and take a shit. I also spend a fair amount of the day getting really excited about flatulence. I also laugh at flatulence, like a two-year-old would laugh at flatulence. Also burps. While burps are not as funny as farts, they are equally praiseworthy. I've basically defaulted to throwing a goddamn party anytime Munch farts, burps, or poops. I do not throw a party for pissing and puking, both of which are done frequently on me and neither of which are appreciated. He does, however, get bonus points for surprisingly loud adult-like farts.

Life, in many ways, has become an experiment in energy conservation and efficiency. However, and here's the thing, and why being a stay-at-home parent is so exhausting, nothing ever goes to plan. And so, all of the planning to conserve energy and be efficient is thrown out the window when Munch spends the first hour and a half of our time alone alternating between puking all over himself and me and producing impossibly large amounts of poop that end up on the outside of his diaper and all over his clothes.You cannot win these battles, these things aren't even battles. It's just you, trying to keep the sinking ship afloat and hoping that your partner arrives home a bit early so you can have 10 minutes of precious silence...on the toilet...or somewhere else in the house that is quiet.

But magical things are happening too. I would have never imagined that Adryn would have wired into his DNA the exact same sneeze as his mother. It's a sneeze, they just happen, there's no genetic coding for this stuff, right? But apparently there's something because they both have the same oddly stifled sounding sneeze. I've tried to tell Kelly for years that sneezing would be so much more satisfying if she just let it all out, convinced that she was stifling her sneezes on purpose. Apparently she wasn't lying when she said that's just how she sneezes because he sneezes the exact same way. They wake up the same way too: slow, methodical, sloth-like. Sudden movement is abhorred and bright lights are anathema.

Wonderfully crooked smile.

And he smiles crooked, like me. That something I've spent twenty-some years noticing and sometimes hating about myself is now reflected back at me in his gloriously unfettered reaction to a raspberry I'm blowing in front of his face makes that crooked smile a wonderfully beautiful thing. I hope he hears me one day when I tell him that.

There's this inexorable march of change taking place that I'm fortunate enough to be witnessing and can appreciate when not knee deep in the blur of a long day. Slowly but surely there's a personality emerging, one that seems intent on being deliberate with everything that he does. And as all of this happens there are still moments when I can't help but wonder what this would have been like with Rhys. What little bits of Kelly and me he would have carried. There is, at times, this odd tension between enjoying and loving and caring for Adryn and still having to fight for the memory of Rhys that people often overlook or dismiss. 12 hours of life is still life. And while Adryn can certainly pass a lot of life in the form of gas, feces, and urine in 12 hours, Rhys did some living too.

So there's this physical exhaustion, for sure. But I guess I didn't anticipate the added emotional exhaustion as we continue to get further from Rhys' birth and death and the intervening time begins to fill more and more with Adryn's wonderful little life. It's funny because, in our little household, Rhys is a daily fixture of our conversations and life together. He's never not there. He's a part of the fabric that makes us a family. And while the majority of my memories of him are painful and full of bitter sadness there's never a moment I've wanted to give them up or put them away only to be taken out once a year on his birthday. Because he has a birthday. He breathed. He held my finger. He lived. Just like Adryn; just like his brother.

The days can be long, but they're still days. And even though I've never felt more like someone was sucking the marrow out of my bones, it's something special. Because that crooked smile. Because those sneezes. Because I'm acutely aware that each day he gets closer to finally figuring out how to functionally put his fingers in his mouth and not his eyes. He's growing and I'm feeling a little less exhausted everyday.

Problem-Solving Skills

I'm indulging a little pre-baby reminisce because sometimes it's nice to remember my son while he was in utero and not constantly puking on me. Some months ago Kelly and I purchased a new garage door to replace an old wood door that was in the middle of falling apart. I could put my foot through it with minimal effort so off to Kelly's favorite place on Earth.

We pulled into the pick-up yard at Menard's in our bright red Prius, convinced we were going to be able to transport home a 16 1/2 foot garage door. The two dudes helping us, let's call them Jacques and Cousteau, looked at us like we were insane. We were, but damnit if we weren't going to make this work. Jacques immediately sent Cousteau off to track down invoices to confirm they were handing us the correct garage door. Clearly there was a pecking order. Roughly 15 minutes later Cousteau returns and Jacques grabs the invoice and begins directing him on the forklift. I pulled the Prius up to the door, turned off the car, and got out to see a pair of incredulous faces staring back at me. Jacques and Cousteau were not believers. It was going to feel really good when it worked.

I set to work transforming the cabin of the Prius into a giant flat bed truck. Kelly began inspecting the situation. You could literally see all of the equations and angles in the air around her head as she's sizing up space and playing Tetris with the three boxes she's working with. This is her moment, she will have many more. My menial task complete, we were ready. Jacques and Cousteau were nice enough to carry the boxes into the hatch of the car and I helped guide them in from the front passenger door. The first box (the parts and instruction box) fit like a glove. In my excitement I teasingly exclaimed to Jacques and Cousteau, "And you thought we wouldn't make it fit! Look at that. Plenty of room. This is going to be cake." They were not appropriately conciliatory in their demeanor or tone...there was a reason for that: the next boxes were the ones with the actual garage doors in them.

Yep. The actual door panels hung a solid 6 feet out the
back of the hatch. NBD.

As they lift the first box of panels into the car I can immediately spot the problem. This, I will add, is progress when it comes to mine own cultivation of better problem-solving skills . The next part, coming up with a solution is where the wheels tend to come off the wagon for me. When left to my own devices my solutions are either non-existent or terrible. Jacques and Cousteau slid the box up flat on the parts box. As they set it down and the weight of the panels settled they bent like melting glass and rested on the ground. My heart sank. I was not expecting this. I was flummoxed. I had never been more out of my league. Who takes a Prius into a lumber yard and expects to haul a garage door home?! I began to form my apology in my head, "Sorry about this guys, clearly this isn't going to work. We'll have to come back when we can borrow a friend's truck or something," when, from the back of the car came a voice. Confident, clear, matter-of-fact, "Just turn it up on it's edge." Oh right Kelly, like just turning it on it's edge is going to fix the 6 feet of door that's still hanging out the back, good one. Sometimes it's like you can't just admit defeat and...oh, huh, that seems to have done the trick. I'm used to this feeling. Kelly does this to me all of the time. Jacques and Cousteau, on the other hand, this is there job and they done got schooled.

The drive home was uneventful save a few stares from other motorists afraid whatever was in our car was going to come sliding out into the front of their vehicles. Problem number two was glossed over on the drive home by yours truly assuming that I would be able to just carry the panels into the garage on my own. No dice. Kelly being pregnant meant no help from her so I was left to my own imagination...I began taking inventory of things in the garage. The gears in my mind sort of clunked for a minute, kind of like the sound of an engine knock just after the transmission drops while driving down the road. The only thing, ONLY THING, I could come up with was unstrap everything and slam the accelerator through the floor board in hope that the garage door would slide out the back hatch. It was a really terrible idea so I decided not to share.

Kelly spots a Tonka truck amidst the wall of stuff she's currently stashing in the garage until such time as she has a deaf and hard of hearing preschool classroom again. This is her solution, a child's toy. I would have looked at the Tonka truck and thought, "Kelly would be so disappointed if I tried to use that." See?! This is what I'm talking about. I have no feel for this problem-solving stuff. I have two gears in this department: brute force (which, surprisingly, I lack in spades) or panic. There's a finesse to this stuff, a certain creativity that I've never quite grasped. The French call it je nais se quoi. That's a thing. Wait, maybe this is like predestination? Predisposition? Predetermined? Predilection? Fuck, I don't know what it's called. Let's just boilerplate this and say I suck at solving problems. It's probably genetic. Thanks mom and dad.

Mission accomplished you bad-ass little Tonka truck.

The Not Doing

A dear friend recently shared with me some not so great news and, as these things so often do, set my head and heart cogs a-turnin'. It's completely cliche and somewhat paternalistic to say that losing a child changes you. Everything changes us. That's life. It moves and shifts and in the middle of it all we're trying to figure out what to do with it. This blog has been my way of sharing pieces of my own path through all of this. The journey of trying to get pregnant. Losing Rhys. My transition out of Christianity and into Taoism. The birth of Adryn. And it's all been a bit of a rambling adventure, much like this post. While we were talking my friend said something that I felt in my bones, "I can't find meaning in this." I've heard that or something similar frequently over the last year working as a chaplain on an Oncology unit. Sometimes it's exhaustion, sometimes it's fear, sometimes it's a deeply honest assessment of reality.

There's a concept in Taoist philosophical practice called Wu Wei. It means non-action or actionless action. It's the place where action and being flow freely and yet remain balanced with the world. Spontaneous, compassionate, and simplistic, it is a state of naturalness that is the result of accepting the most honest depiction of ourselves and the world around us and not, as is so often the urge, as we might want them to be. I never really made much sense of it until I was sitting in the hospital recovery room with Kelly the night Rhys died. I wanted to rage and fight and push back against what had happened that day. I wanted to stand up and say no, this is not right, these things should never happen. But the only thing I seemed able to do was sit with that loss. I sat in my sadness, not really sleeping, aware of how long Kelly and I had waited to get to this point, and then losing everything we thought we'd finally found. We each cried throughout that night, sometimes alone, sometimes together; sometimes silently, sometimes loudly. And It was so completely counter-intuitive to my very western mind, such the antithesis of the protestant work ethic much of my cultural baggage is steeped in. And yet, that sitting with and being deeply connected to everything that had happened was essential.

Since Rhys, I've noticed that it's the not doing that really does. Putting to bed some of these notions of control or triumph have helped with that. There isn't much in the eddies of life that I have a great deal of say over save the way in which I interact with the world around me. Learning what it meant to deeply connect with my sadness and be honest about my fear has given me the opportunity to touch pieces of myself that have both empowered and cultivated in me a greater capacity to live. I think we rush to find meaning, or perhaps more accurately, rush to nail down a meaning. Meaning provides us with a sense of understanding and I've found that understanding (or thinking I understand) can be a seductive partner when I'm trying to control the world around me. My grief has provided the framework to be rather than subdue or change or rush to "feel better", something that I'm thankful for and something I continue to struggle with.

And meaning is such a fickle thing too. Rhys' birth and death meant something different to me than it meant to Kelly. It meant something different to friends and family members. Sure we share similarities of experience, but everyone's perspective is their own. We all come to the same scene with different collections of stuff that make us, us. There is a maddeningly beautiful reality in all of that. For me, Rhys is not an angel in heaven, he is not in heaven, he does not exist in a place where one day, when I die, I will recognize and be with him. For others, this is what he means, and while at times I find myself wanting to push back against that, I have no right or reason to. I don't own him, or his life, or the meaning people might derive from it. I don't get to control that. So, again, I'm learning to sit with these things, to accept and to share. To both allow the voices of others and (the more difficult thing for me) share my own voice in the process. This whole meaning-making thing is exactly that, a process. There's no blueprint for this stuff and sometimes I even fear that pegging down meaning is a sign that I've stopped seeking and stopped being. "I can't find meaning in this" is an okay place to be in my book.

There's a story attributed to Chuang Tzu I like about two goat-herders, Gu and Zang. Zang liked to spend his time gambling while Gu spent his time reading books and furthering his knowledge. One night, while Zang was completely absorbed in his gambling with friends a goat from his flock wandered away and he was lost. That same night, Gu was immersed in a particularly fascinating book and a goat from his flock wandered away and was lost as well. It serves, for me, as a gentle reminder that judging one's actions as good or bad, sinful or righteous, isn't the point. The point is remaining awake, paying attention, participating in the present, sitting with ourselves and the world around us. The point is being and I've found that there's a whole lot of not doing that helps me be.

Hold Me Closer Tiny Dictator

5 days after beginning my new job as baby manager and holy shit. My life is now controlled by a small tyrannical nearly 9-week-old dictator. I'm rooming with fucking Kim Jong Il. Yes I know he died...and was reincarnated IN THE GUISE OF MY SON. To be fair, it hasn't been all horrible, just mostly. The kid cannot be put down for any reason. If his ass or back touches anything other than my arms he immediately breaks down. At first it's funny because he begins with a sort of whimpering whine and his face morphs slowly into full-on meltdown. Then, the screaming begins and does not abate. I'll get small moments of composure when I walk outside and do a lap around the yard or turn on the water faucet for a minute. At this point, there isn't much I haven't tried. Occasionally, huge stress on the occasionally, he'll let me stand in one place and just pat his bottom. 8lbs of raw baby is incredibly exhausting to tote around all day.

Also, I've completely forgotten to eat most days. It doesn't even enter my mind until Kelly gets home and I'm all, "Man, I'm famished." I've forgotten to brush my teeth a few of these nights. Also, I don't think I've flossed this entire week. Do we still have floss in the house? Maybe that's why. It's entirely possible we ran out and I haven't picked any up at the store with all of the time I have being consumed by El Presidente Munch.

Fast forward to our 2 month appointment yesterday and what does he do? He looks straight at nurse I'm-getting-ready-to-stick-you-with-needles and smiles.  The first words out of my mouth were, "Unbelievable! What the hell is that?!" I then had to remember I was in public and public decorum must be upheld, or some such shit, and had to actively refrain from repeatedly exclaiming, "What the fuck?!" Of course, as the nurse reacts in high-pitch squeals, he SMILES AGAIN EVEN LARGER. A third smile later (because, apparently, he already knows how to rub salt in the wound of my heart) he's on the scale, lying on his back...not crying. Even though I've suffered through 4 days straight of screaming fits when I put him down for three seconds to, ya know, change the clothing he so casually vomited all over or eat a bite of food. Why do I need to eat a bite of food? SO I CAN CONTINUE TO SUSTAIN YOUR LIFE.

We basically geared up for 48 hours of hell after his vaccines. Irritable, inconsolable, probably running a fever and probably crying all day because of that. So, basically, like every other day this week minus a fever. When I pressed for a solid answer on what to expect in the next 24-48 hours the doc began to spew unicorns and rainbows from his mouth. Apparently, early term babies usually don't have very negative reactions to the first round of vaccines, and, are you ready for this? GET REALLY SLEEPY FOR 24 HOURS. As long as they're waking up to eat, it's totally fine. In my head I thought, fuck, if this kid sleeps 24 hours straight I'm cutting my losses and moving on. There is no way in hell I'm waking him up.

He took the shots like a champ and, I swear, almost immediately feel asleep in his car seat. The same car seat with which he shares a very intense love-hate relationship, heavy on the hate. We Carpe Diem'd the shit out of our good fortune and ran to a local pizza place to grab some dinner before heading home. Munch is completely passed out after his harrowing experience with the vaccines and after we sit down Kelly and I kind of look at each other for a minute. We audibly exhale at the same time. We're both acutely aware of the delicate balancing act that is required. No sudden movements, no loud sounds. Just sit quietly and calmly and bask in the glory of the moment. When the appetizers got to the table I began inhaling them at ludicrous speed, knowing full well this was not going to last. Kelly, thankfully, settled me back down. Alas, the best laid plans of moms and dads...

A family of three sat back down a few tables away from us. Where they came from I've no idea. They were not there when we walked in and somehow magically appeared at their table with their pizza being immediately served. I was a bit confused and then the toddler began making a lot of noise. Mom and dad were useless so I took matters into my own hands by staring the kid down with eyes that burned. I gave him the biggest stink eye I could possibly muster. So help me god if he ruins this moment for us. It was apparent that mom and dad were quickly loosing containment, or had no real intention of keeping containment in the first place because dad handed him the fucking pie server. THE METAL FUCKING PIE SERVER, with which he proceeded to bang repeatedly against the metal pole next to their table.  The moment was lost. Munch woke up with a start wailing his head off, I tried to swing the car seat to settle him while Kelly bolted down the rest of her pizza and then we traded so I could finish. We were gone within seconds.

The moral of the story is twofold. Firstfold, I'm in talks with the doctor to schedule a rotating, every other day, vaccination schedule for Munch because he was mercifully sleepy (angelic even) all day today, and secondfold, those parents at the pizza place are the worst fucking people in the world.

Preparing To "Enter the Workforce" As a "Non-productive" Member Of Society

Figure 1: Just look at it for a second. Let it sink in. 

Through the incredible magic of life, I will soon become the primary care-take of our very new 2013 baby boy. Minimal miles, breath-takingly fuel efficient, complete with tow package. It would be a bald-faced lie to say I have not been excited about being the stay-at-home dad for some time but now that we're coming up on it I'm sort of terrified. And also PISSED. Because apparently, maternity/paternity leave is something most governments in the world feel it would be a good idea in which to invest. Except, of course, for the good ole' U. S. of A. Because we pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. Except for the babies, because they can't pull anything yet except an incredibly well-timed piss on your hand. Oh, and I guess the moms, who gave birth to them. Strike that, moms should be up and at em' within days. A week at the outset for you c-sectioners. We seem to give shockingly few shits about the next generation of people unless we're talking about such societally degrading things as gay people, taking away my guns, and for the love of god can someone please do something with all of these poor people, they're really ruining the aesthetics around here. 

Anyhoo, I'm not real sure what all of this means for me yet in terms of actual day-to-day life. Most likely there will be lots of bottle feeding, poop, puke, piss, the usual. I imagine there will also be some pretty fantastic moments of something that will probably result in tears, wishing I had a camera near by, and hoping Kelly doesn't get mad when she comes home and I tell her what happened (either because it was horrible or awesome). Also, video games. I have it on good authority from a doctor that you can get a lot of video game time in during these first months of life.

America: Where "family values" is about making sure
those homo-sexuals can't marry one another.

I don't really have anything more profound to say than this. Will I make it through the day with a two-month-old. Alone. Who knows? Most likely, yes, but I don't want to tempt fate here. Also, I really can't get over this whole paid family leave thing. Canada, if you are listening, I know all of the words to your national anthem, so long as the only words to your anthem are "Oh Canada!" That's better than like 90% of the other citizens of this country. Plus, I'm basically a socialist, so I'll fit right in. I have no problem not working and having other people foot the bill for my medical care, education, and...well...everything really. I'm not picky. I'm willing to become more apologetic, love cold weather, and took two years of French in high school. Je ne sais pas. See?! I'm not sure how you manage to afford to offer such generous terms for paid family leave...or national healthcare...or education...guh, this is getting depressing. I really have to dig deep here into the annals of 11th grade U.S. History and review just what in the hell this whole "social contract" thing is about. But. BUT. We have a ridiculously large military because peace time is for pussies.

So, in a way, I feel like this whole stay-at-home dad thing is really my big giant fuck you to capitalism. That's at least what I'm telling myself. I'm no longer a part of your system (at least for the length of time it takes for me to experience my first hellacious day at home alone with munch and end the day in desperate need of a Buona Beef cheese fries...stat.). Also, there's the added bonus of being able to watch this kid of mine grow and change and finally be able to replace the pacifier he so carelessly spits out of his mouth back into his mouth when he didn't actually mean to do that.

Poindexter is ready, and perhaps a bit too excited.

Day 23

We have a new resident in our house. He is completely selfish, enjoys long sleeps, and has a vested interest in puking on things. His greatest ambition seems to be procuring copious amounts of milk from his mother which he requests by thrashing wildly and emitting mongrel-like sounds that would put any normal person in mind of a woodchipper and at least give you pause to think twice about putting his mouth anywhere near a body part onto which he could latch.

Not-So-Great Qualities:

• Loves to excrete urine and feces on things. 
• Doesn't "use his words".
• Cannot watch West Wing with me yet because his eyesight sucks.
• Refuses to apply problem-solving skills to find his pacifier that is literally a millimeter from his mouth (the same mouth out of which he just unceremoniously spit said pacifier)
• Cannot ambulate.

Better Qualities:

• Frequently goes "cross-eyed" when looking around.
• Soft fluffy hair.
• Lightweight.
• Attempts to eat his hands.
• Occasionally smiles.

"Awake"

WTF

Happy Face

Couldn't be less amused.

First Selfie

We're still in the trial period so no guarantees about keeping this thing around as of yet but he's growing on me.

Birthday Month

No. Not my birthday month. If I was born in July I would have been pissed, thank you mother and father for accidentally getting pregnant with me at the appropriate time. July is hot and sticky and muggy and filled with the sounds of A/C condensers humming that makes everything feel like you're living in an airplane cabin during take-off. Unfortunately, both of my parents were not the recipients of well-timed accidents and were born in July; thus July usually meant some kind of celebratory thing outside. Outside in July means heat and sweat and nothing else. And so the universal constant  of fucking with me is again confirmed in scientific terms because the coming baby will also be born in July. That sucks even more because if I was the one with the July birthday I could at least choose a celebration that does not spend the entire day underneath a scorching sun trying to brave the inevitable sunburn and subsequent Lidocaine baths. Now I will be at the mercy of a small person who will not give two shits about another's comfort or wants for at least a decade. And here's the thing, I couldn't be more excited.

Just let me have my moment. I know this excitement will run its course in due time, but right now, all of the anticipation of poop and puke and lack of normal sleep patterns and mind-numbing dearth of energy, I'm having a hard time containing my joy. And it's the first time I've felt like that since we found out we were pregnant some 30 weeks ago. This is not naivety (mostly).

Making Sweet Squeegeeing Love To My Windshield Wipers

My view post wipe with old wipers. That car in
front is actually a mile away. Thanks funhouse
mirror windshield wipers.

Languishing in the world of ineffective windshield wipers was just how everyone lived. The wipers clear your field of vision, forward and backward, and leave behind a well defined film of hastily spread water droplets that routinely make the other cars and buildings and trees around you look like everything exists in a world of funhouse mirrors. This is life driving in rain, this is how it would always be. I never ventured to imagine a world that was different, a world where windshield wipers cleared ALL OF THE WATER. Granted, I've never splurged for the "name brand" expensive wipers, mostly because I'm a cheap bastard and require Kelly to handle all financial transactions over $20 that don't include video games and/or electronics. But here's the thing, a good pair of windshield wipers can literally change your life.

When Kelly called to inform me that she had purchased new windshield wipers and went on to explain she had gotten the fancy "Rain-X Latitude" wipers because they were the only ones available in the size we needed, I harrumphed loudly and made an inappropriate hand gesture in the air. The last time something like this happened she had paid extra money for new tires when the salesman sold her on "snow grooving", which is a complete crock of shit.

(Interlude: I would be remiss to act like Kelly has a history of making poor financial decisions. That's actually my department. By and large the only reason we're able to live is because she is well versed in being organized, responsible and appropriately frugal with our finances. I would gleefully drop $2,000 on a new computer every year if it weren't for her much more enlightened sense of reality.)

So here I was, assuming she had been "had" again by some fancy packaging and fancy name of some idiot product that would do nothing but produce the same results of every other wiper blade in existence. Then I took them out of the package. Right away I could tell something was different. The wipers were substantial, they were weighty, they held a solid parabolic curve that put boomerangs to shame. This thing was going to go on my windshield and actually hug the damn glass like a baby chimp clinging to its parent as it flies from branch to branch. I'd never seen a windshield wiper do that before. It was like witnessing your first fireworks display or seeing The Sixth Sense for the first time (spoiler alert: Bruce is dead THE WHOLE MOVIE). Hairs raised on the back of my neck. I could feel my heart beating in my throat as the wipers clicked pleasingly into place. God, they even clicked into their hooks nicely.

Yes this is probably a digitally enhanced picture of
my windshield wipers in action, but this is how good
they actually work. For real.

And yet, with all of these tingly good feelings I couldn't quite bring myself to trust this magnificent piece of machinery. I turned to Kelly and cautiously stated, "I guess we'll see how they hold up when it rains next." But in my heart, I was excited. I went inside to check the 10-day and hoped (dare I hope?) for rain. The result: magic. Pure unadulterated magic. Those fancy ass wipers cleared the whole fucking window, one wipe, in the midst of a torrential downpour that resulted in the flooding of numerous surrounding areas and states-of-emergency declared in several townships. Also our roof decided to spring a leak, but those wipers...MAN! Those wipers fucking worked and they're still working and I swear they'll be working this time next year.

A Great Big Useless Tree

Shortly before Rhys was born I found out my blood type for the first time in my living memory. Being the middle child, my mother and father were never too concerned about remembering "important things" about me so I had to adapt (jk, love ya mom and dad, xoxo). I was having some blood work done and the labs/docs were nice enough to screen it for my blood type as well. Low and behold, O negative blood runs through these selfless veins: Universal donor which, appropriately enough, also means universally screwed because I can only take O negative blood. O negative blood is rare, you see, which is probably a good reason for me to donate blood on a semi-regular basis. I'll honestly start doing that at some point, I swear, but the whole idea kind of freaks me out. I need to get over myself. But I digress.

Sitting in the hospital two days after Rhys came and went, I was a bit restless and found a sense of calm and comfort in recalling my seventh grade science class punnet square lesson and using it to determine the odds of Rhys' blood type and confirm Kelly's actual blood phenotype. The moment still imprints itself in my memory in a startlingly clear way. I frantically asked if anyone had some pen and paper and looked around at the family members in the room as if they all should have had some paper and a pen on them at this given moment. Never mind that everyone else had been walking through the events of Rhys' birth and death with us, just as stunned by what had happened as us, just as inadequate in their understanding as we were. I needed pen and paper and moments later, from where or whom I have no clue, it was in front of me. I drew up the square and divided it into four boxes and went to work. We had found out that Rhys was O positive which meant that Kelly, who is A positive, must have an AO phenotype and not an AA. Kelly giving the AO and me giving the OO meant Rhys and future children have a 50/50 chance of being either AO or OO. That spontaneous decision lead me back to the present and reminded me to sit with my anger and sadness and pain. It pointed me towards a deeply rooted sense of what was, what had happened, and of all the thoughts and feelings that came with it. Put another way, it was a moment of experiencing Tao.

A few months ago Rev. Lillian Daniel's rant about a conversation with a fellow airplane patron made the rounds on my facebook newsfeed and I found myself feeling somewhat self-conscious and worried. In that short post resided my fears and concerns about revealing my spiritual identity to those around me. Stereotyped? Check. Misunderstood? Check. Rejected? Check. I would consider myself "spiritual but not religious". Never mind that this identity is deeply rooted in an ancient tradition and never mind that it places the experience and understanding of one's inner self at the center of spiritual practice; something that seems to run antithetical to her conception of spirituality. And to be fair, on a certain level I think I get what she's saying, laziness is not spirituality and I don't think any self-respecting person would disagree with that, but her post felt a lot like the old adage throwing the baby out with the bath water. And there is a piece of this that felt even more insidious.

Lillian Daniel's conception of spirituality seems to only make space for someone who believes in a very western, very Protestant view of spirituality. I can't help but wonder what she would say to Sat Hon explaining a certain type of Taoist meditation thusly:

When I teach this pathless form of meditation to students: that there is nothing to teach and everything is perfect and in harmony just as they are in this very moment. I am usually met with the following:
"Ughh. But you have taught us nothing," is a common response.
"Exactly," I laugh. While some walk out in a huff.
"Charlatan!" they shout.
A few stay, hoping that perhaps at a later time I will eventually reveal the secret techniques to them. They will also leave empty-handed and full of blame and anger. Only a rare individual or two will awaken to this instantaneous perfection of suchness.
"You lying thief!" they laugh. And perhaps we will then share a cup of Dragon Well tea.

I might be a bit more interested in sharing a cup of coffee but you get the gist. This is not the type of religious or spiritual experience she is holding up as valid. I don't know, maybe Lillian Daniel is reacting to something very different, but her comment about wanting to sit next to someone who experiences the world as she does when the plane goes down strikes me a tad disturbing. As if the only way she would be willing to share something meaningful with someone else is if they shared a fundamental belief in the way she saw and experienced the world. It helped identify what the struggle has been for me when it comes to "outing" myself.

Living and working with so many others that are openly Christian and assume the same about those around them can be a challenge and for a few years now I've existed in this world feeling like an intruder, constantly justifying the words I used and the names I invoked in order to at least maintain some sort of authenticity within myself. I've hid my self from others because I wasn't convinced that being honest about my spiritual path would be received or accepted or even tolerated. I've not been very eager to approach that place. Rhys' birth changed a great deal of this for me and reminded me of a lesson I learned attending church, curiously enough. Much of that lesson is indebted to the love, support, and character of very intelligent and wise women who walked with me through the process of confirmation and, later, ordination. They taught me and showed me that they were interested in me, not because I was Christian or held the same beliefs or recited the correct creeds but precisely because I was me. In a funny way my spiritual life and path wouldn't be possible (or at least much more contentious) if it weren't for my experience as a Christian being formed in a church environment that encouraged questions and respected difference.

So practicing Taoist spirituality isn't something new for me. I've been reading about and enjoying Taoism for years, but sharing that with people? Coming out of the closet, so to speak? That's been difficult. Reading things like Lillian Daniel's post reminds me of the expectations and assumptions we foist on each other, and it worries me. It scares me. All of this is by way of saying that this transition for me has been about seeking an authentic an honest expression of myself in this life that accepts that things happen without explanation or reason. Sure we can learn from them, we can grow and change because of them, but the events of life, for me, are not tied to some greater plan or divine providence or overarching narrative in which good triumphs over evil. Life is what life has always been, a balance of chaos and order. Put differently, life is both joy and sadness, loss and gain, learning and forgetting, nothing more and nothing less. I don't pray and I don't worship. I practice presence and cultivate empathy and compassion.

In the simplest terms possible, I am, and that is enough for me.

Year One

A couple of weeks after we lost Rhys we were driving down Highland Avenue on the way to pick up his ashes from the funeral home. Kelly and I were emotional. We had  a difficult time leaving the hospital knowing that we'd be leaving him behind, that it would be the last time we saw him, and I was worried that at some point in the near future I would forget what he looked like or some important thing that reminded me of him. It was on that drive to pick up his ashes that I realized I could picture his face. I hadn't laid eyes on him for more than a week, but there he was, as clear as the first time I drank in his face. The tears flowed freely in that moment; Joy and sorrow, loss and peace all sitting quite comfortably together.

There was so much about those 4 days in the hospital that were difficult and then these seemingly odd moments of peace absorbing the features of his face and hands and feet. Neither Kelly nor I wanted to leave. Leaving meant we'd never hold him again; it meant saying goodbye to that physical reminder that he was here, that he lived and breathed, that he entered the world and became something. The most touching gesture and gift we received in the days following Rhys' death was from a friend who donated trees to be planted in his honor. That gift spoke to me. It connected to the moments of that day in a way that was devoid of judgment but held a deep recognition of the experience. I didn't want to conceive of what had happened as right or wrong, good or bad. There was nothing wrong with my son, there was nothing bad about his short life. It simply was. That's a hard thing to explain and share with people when they're consumed with wanting to explain those things. Those trees never said that to me. Those trees said that, regardless of the length of his life, Rhys contributed something to the world in some small way and that made all the difference sitting in that hospital room trying to figure out how to summon the courage to leave that place.

In the months that followed, after Rhys' ashes had found a home in two different urns, Kelly and I fell in to a rhythm of life that revolved around getting out of the house and walking in nature. We'd walk the prairie path West and East and spend time circling the ponds at Madison Meadows. Eventually, once Kelly had recovered sufficiently from her c-section, we returned to the East Branch dog park that we looked forward to traipsing around with a newborn strapped in a Baby Bjorn. There were moments when those forays back in to the world felt timely and needed and others when each step felt like sorrow and every one of those moments were vital. Sometimes my sadness and pain abound, sometimes it's joy and peace, sometimes it's all of those things at once but there has never been a moment in all of this when I've wanted someone to try and take any of these feelings away from me. These are the only things I have of him.

At the beginning of June our restlessness had risen to a peak and our energy turned towards doing. We wanted to create a physical space for our grief and a garden in the backyard seemed as good a way as any other. We pulled up a section of grass, moved the Day Lilies and Arborvitae that were in random places in the yard, and planted a new Hydrangea bush. In the weeks and months to come it would continue to take shape, adding other plants and moving some (apparently Hydrangea don't like full sun...who knew?), setting up a wind chime, placing his memorial paver, and adding a small bird bath made by his grandma. It is, for us, a place where his future siblings will know him, where they will interact with him, a place where they'll be able to add their own choice of plant or tree or bush and be reminded of ways in which all of our lives contribute something to the world around us. My hope is that they're reminded to contribute something positive towards the great balance of life.

In the last moments of writing this I have a pregnant Kelly sitting next to me, a 70 lb snoring dog in a tight ball between us and am preparing to go spend the rest of the day in the dirt of Rhys' garden planting, shaping and remembering a short life that has reminded me to be who I am.

Son and Tao

Oh hai blog. Long time no write. It's only been like a year...or more. No big deal. I don't mean to dismiss your feelings and all but, as you might know, life tends to happen. So anyway, I thought, in an effort to get back into this semi-regular writing thing I'd do more writing. Ha ha, writing thing...do more writing...ehhhh. Let's not make this any more awkward than we need to.

This past year has been a lesson in remembering to be who I am, without pretense or false tense or past tense or future tense. When my son Rhys was born last year it was a stark reminder of the importance of being present. At 23 weeks and 5 days, I was never under any delusions that his life would be anything more than a short abbreviated version of all the hopes and dreams his mother and I had carried with us for the past 6 months.  In the days and weeks and months to come I never figured out how to respond when someone said, "You'll be with him again someday in heaven," or some other similar sentiment. Usually I didn't say anything. Occasionally I'd offer something approximating a smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach the corners of your mouth. Those moments were reminders of feelings I've carried for years and buried, the kind that remind me I've felt like an intruder upon a faith practice and spirituality that hadn't felt honest or authentic for years.

It was an odd experience sitting in theology class in seminary and having to hide aspects of my own spiritual experience because they weren't fitting the mold. Even in seminary, a place where there is ample room for ideas and theological concepts, I never felt safe offering my honest thoughts and feelings . I still remember responses from a professor on a rough draft of a statement of faith that invited me to revise because my conception of god was too distant. The message I got was, "You don't sound very Christian," and the truth was I wasn't. I hadn't been for some time. I'd been spending plenty of time and effort shoehorning certain beliefs into appropriate sounding Christianese out of some misplaced sense of duty to a faith I'd grown up in, a faith that helped shape the person I am today. How do I say goodbye to that? How do I part ways with something that has had a positive and important impact on my life?

Rhys was never able to thrive, he never had the chance to tread water. He required a lot of help-extraordinary help-that couldn't do much about the fact that he just wasn't ready to be on his own in this world. In those hours Kelly and I spent helplessly watching I was reminded of a number of people I've had the privilege of knowing and stories I've heard of others who never got that chance either. Whether because of a culture that fears difference or wounds that festered and never healed those stories are important. By virtue of the fact that we are human beings, those stories mean something. What my son reminded me of in his all too brief 12 hours of life was that everyone has the right to live their life fully, completely, openly and honestly. He reminded me that it's not enough to be tolerant, it's not enough to tread water. He reminded me that, as much as I try to be an advocate for others to be fully, completely and authentically themselves, I've not been much of an advocate for myself to do the same thing. As we prepare to welcome our next child into the world I want to be able to show him that being who you are is important and life-giving. I want her to see that and not just hear that.

So, little one, whoever you are, whoever you become, know that your Taoist father only wants you to be who you are and hopes you never feel like you have to be something you're not. You can thank your big brother for that.