learning to walk on water

I’ve never been more relieved to have a date come and go than I have for August 1, 2011. What a gigantic tear there is in this life since my father—Philip Swan—has left.

Sunday we gathered, his friends and loved ones, to remember the life and mark the day he was still among us. While I am grateful for the event, the gaping hole was obvious, the glue that held us was gone. It felt as if our chief storyteller was waiting on US to fill his shoes—and the truth is—no one can.

People often say we should celebrate (or laugh, or eat, or live) because that is what the departed would have wanted. But honestly, I don’t know what he would have wanted—for me, for all of us. I don’t know if it is what we look like now. I imagine he is a little like Jesus at the side of the boat, laughing, saying “oh ye of little faith” watching us all try to walk on water like he always did. I need more time with the master.

We spread some of his ashes into the lake, just off the dock—one of his favorite places on earth—yesterday. Des spoke with him and spread the dust; I found myself clinging to each moment as it clicked by … birds singing their timeless song, me drinking in each Kodachrome frame.

I still feel lost without him. A year is like a moment. I don’t know yet how to feel or what to make of life unfolding without him, but I trust I am not the only one.

the road to 40 is paved with …

In a week from today I will be 40.
Forty. (Holy crap.)

birthday candles by andrewfristoe

Leading up to next weeks milestone, I thought it might be fun (or at least a good exercise) to reflect on where I’ve been, and where I think I am going. As usual, I am not to make any promises about what I will write. But—with that said—I hope to look as objectively as I can at my life thus far and see if I can’t find some sort of nugget of truth, some kernel of hope, a thread of a God-voice and purpose.

Are you 40? What milestone birthday got you reflecting? Was there a birthday year you remember that felt particularly anxiety producing?

Friends, I hope you’ll join me in this little cathartic exercise, if only to bear witness and help me make the transition. First reflection up later tonight.

on the occasion of your birthday

Dad,

I always struggled with your birthday—so close to Father’s Day—and trying to find you, the man who had everything, a gift. What on earth could I possibly give you? What would go with that smile, could go with that look on your face—the one where you throw your head back in a fit of laughter, then wipe away your tears because you’ve been laughing so hard?

Nothing. No earthly thing could measure up—no amount of perfect shopping would ever evoke that response. No button down shirt or gadget would compare to the gift you gave—joy and love for LIFE and all its offerings.

I know it probably goes without saying, but I miss you. I miss your big hugs where I almost couldn’t breathe you were squeezing me so tight. I miss your phone calls reminding me that it had been a little too long since you’d heard from me. I miss your stories—shit I miss your stories. I never grew tired of them; I feel like I only heard a small sliver slice of the treasure trove that would have been shared eventually, across Easter eggs benedicts and Des’s thanksgiving dressing.

I miss you more than tears and jumbled up half baked words can express. Its not poetic. Its not all wrapped up. Its rather a mess actually, but its what I have—its all I have. I wish you were here so I could tell you—just one more time—but hindsight is always 20/20 and if you were here, tomorrow would be another beautiful day, sun shining and flowers bursting and the 10 am phone call from me and sweetie.

Happy birthday dad. I love you.

six years

Six years ago a man was hunting—not for fish or flying creatures—but for a rare but beautiful type of fungus—the elusive morel mushroom. Six years ago down on his hands and knees, pushing back and across a thousand Freddies, that man would bump into something indeed rare and beautiful, but IT would be a SHE and she was not what HE was looking for; not at all. But I was, looking that is.

Six years ago we lay the questions to rest. The hope, it died last. The next chapter of the book was well underway and six years ago feels like a thousand, maybe more.

“Well at least you have closure” is what people say most often in response to this tale. As if closure ever made it all better, tying life and love and heartache into some nifty mess-less  beginning and end all wrapped up package. I remember begging my first boyfriend too, “just get together with me one last time, so I can get closure.” Yeah that’s what I wanted, closure. Right. You know what I wanted—then and now? A hug.

My mom was 5 foot nothin’ with an embrace more fierce than a black bear feeding her cub. Her hair was long and full. Most days I can still see her, wrapped up in curlers—hot, foam, rags or velcro. With a tiny mirror and a huge makeup bag, sitting at the counter, L’Oreal number 620—mica, back and forth across her lips, pucker.

Today my hair is wrapped up in curlers, and today, like every other day, I miss her.

I never wanted to be a mom

“I have already been a mother in this lifetime”  I tell people when they ask if sweetie and I are having kids. Then kind, well meaning people have said things like “but you’d be so GOOD at it, are you sure you won’t adopt or foster or something someday? I mean, you haven’t totally ruled it out totally, have you?”

I have, totally. I always have. I admit it: I have never wanted to be a mother. (OK, I thought I could with this one guy—but I totally blame the Irish accent, a few pints of Guinness and he was “in the band”—you know the type.)

I never fantasized—like other girls—by putting pillows in my nightshirts and standing sideways in the mirror, trying on what being pregnant would look like. I played with dollies, but mine never peed themselves, cried, or needed feeding. Come to think of it, most of my dollies were big chested, long legged hot Barbies that had rockin’ outfits and some serious bad ass hair-dos.

Do you know why I never wanted to be a mom? Because it is hard fucking work. It is a tireless, thankless, never ending gig that pays nothing, asks everything and quite frankly, it scares the shit out of me. I believe, like marriage, its not anything to take lightly. I know, I know, there are LOTS of people who aren’t ready for it, and they take the blessing bestowed upon them and become more than they ever thought possible (I know and love a few of these moms). But sometimes, it goes disastrously wrong.

Now stop for a second, and think about all those people you know or see, in the grocery store, mall or on Sundays at the family dinner table, that didn’t want to be mothers. But they did, and are, and deep down in those dark icky places, we wish they weren’t. “They aren’t ready” we think while they are smacking the kids bottom (or worse, face) for just being a kid, doing kid things. We try not to stare as we judge under our breath “how on earth can those kids live on hot dogs, red hot cheesy fries and mountain dew from the gas station?” If you aren’t familiar with this scene, you are not paying attention.

I am not a mom. But, I am a mothering person. I have help raise a few young people who have turned out to be the best dad and smartest kid sister anyone could ever know. I have loved family that aren’t my own, I have taken in many a kitten, puppy, turtle and baby queer. I have known all my life that I was born to love, but not be a mom.

So this mothers day, I want to raise a glass, to all of us non-traditional mothers and mother lovers. We may look like a cute three-legged dog to some, but to me we are the brave, the beautiful, the barren and bold. Happy mothers day, damn it.