December 4th, 2009
Sleep and dream and work and family is not enough, so each night there is a two drink minimum to level out and bring back thankfulness. We’ve a nice house. Happy healthy kids. A solid relationship that is likely to only be broken by death. And with the way I’m packing on pounds, one could say I’m content.
And while I am satisfied with my marriage—being a Dad and husband— there is, and always will be, a deep dissatisfaction. A hunger. An appetite that drives. Gut that guides. Quiet desperation that reaches and pulls, begs and tugs, from just below the surface.
It’s a half-dozen clumpy squirrel nests. Two-thirds of the way up. In dark, naked trees. Homes of grass and leaves and twigs and paper wrappers. Exposed to cold night skies. Icy rain. The silent cover that snowflakes bring. Looking now, out the window at a sun fighting to light and warm the world, I wonder, where do all the squirrels go?
It is a beautiful thing to have thoughts that do not stop. A curious nature that has not yet died. But I miss the intimacy we used to have. My thoughts, these words, and me. There is so much good in these days of early waking and late settling. But it is hard when all of it latches on, sinks in, finds a place to fit, and I’m weighted a little more each day with the stark reality that I’m carrying more than bones and tissue and heart were ever meant to carry. Deep, meaningful things built to last and grow, rise and simmer, and that need to be shared. But all I can do is move ahead. Load my shoulders and keep my chin pointed to the sky. At birds and rooftops. Clouds and stars. All these squirrels and nests and dead Novembers and dying Decembers, and suns that fight the cold of this world. Because sooner than later, I will rest. Have my time. And I’ll remember these big, fast-moving days as the time when all I needed to be was the man I was. Working to keep the house warm, the bills paid, food in the pantry and fridge. In love with my wife. Raising my kids. Doing what needed to be done so that they were not burdened by anything but the simple act of living hopeful lives. From sleep to sleep and dream to dream. Over and over again.