I've got nothing to say. I guess I could just prattle on about nothing. Nothing went a long way for the existentialists. Sometimes my nothing rambles turns into something, but I'm not sure it'll do me any good today.
I went to church. I didn't get much done in the afternoon because I came home tired and napped too long. I went to the store, bought food for dinner. I ran into somebody I knew at the grocery store. We talked about easy babies and hard ones. Nick wasn't an easy baby. Oh, I loved the way he could get people to laugh just by arching an eyebrow, but he wasn't an easy baby. He laughed any time we said the word, 'Doodlebug.' It didn't work on my friend's baby today. Nick also laughed when we whistled. In fact, when he was six months old, he was holding his mouth in the right way and whistled. It was just a single note, but he got excited and whistled the same note in and out faster and faster as if he'd discovered an important key to a code. After that, he whistled a lot while I was changing his diaper. I whistle sometimes when I'm afraid.
That's it. That's all I did. Then Mike, Nick and I watched a bad movie from Redbox.
I think I have an ordinary week coming, but who knows? What is ordinary? Well, for me, it's a quiet life. I don't turn on the television very often. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to walk dogs with my friend. I want to begin the work to get rid of and pack away some extra stuff. We have too much stuff. It's bothering me. Mike's office and the cabinets in the kitchens are my first target. See, there it is. Nothing.
I did the minimum today. I cleaned out the litter boxes. I want to move Buddy's litter box downstairs, out of the kitchen. There's something nasty about having a litter box in the kitchen. Bad feng shui, I would guess. I wonder what the rules of feng shui are. Yeah, Wikipedia has this college-style essay about feng shui that says nothing. More nothingness. Did I lose you yet?
So, I've been having vivid dreams lately. Last night, I dreamed that Buddy was having kittens, but he was having trouble and was going to die if I didn't stay and help him. (Never mind that Buddy is a male cat. This was a dream, remember?) For some reason, I just had to leave him and when I came back, it looked as if he were dead and there was a little wet kitten next to him that I was sure I could never keep alive without him. I awoke fearful but there was love in it too. Buddy really is a sweet cat. My dreams lately have been difficult, full of fear. I don't know why.
In church today, my minister said that to follow Jesus you have to give up fear. Really? I don't always agree with this minister. I guess I never have agreed with everything any minister preached except one exceptional man, Dr. Gingery, but then I was pretty young and impressionable back then. Someone told me once, that I couldn't possibly be a real Christian because of these disbeliefs. Well, maybe that's true.
I have so many doubts about giving up fear, though. Somehow that unearned confidence that I've seen shining in people's eyes when they talk about Jesus gives me the creeps. Life is hard. Sometimes it's scary, really scary. If you don't understand fear, you could walk down the center of an interstate wearing a black jacket at night and expect to live. Doesn't fear have an important job?
When I'm walking along the trail at dusk with Teddy, I watch him. If he's relaxed, I'm relaxed, usually. He has a better nose than I do and better night vision. I don't want to walk around in my life being afraid to live, but I'm damn sure I'm not giving up my right to fear. Fear has saved my life more than once.
When?
Last night, I told a story to Brandon. Brandon is the guy who babysat for Nick and Adrian and he helps me in the yard sometimes. He's a good kid and I'm more honest with him than I am with other kids his age because I know him pretty well.
He called at 5:30 last night, telling Mike that he had a dead battery and his parents were up skiing. Would Mike come to where he worked and give him a jump? I knew exactly what Brandon was doing. He was trying to get Mike out of the house for a surprise party that the Cub Scout den was throwing for him at the Roadhouse to say 'thank you' for all of his dedication. Mike really did deserve this party and I was happy it remained a surprise to the end. So at dinner, Brandon was across from me along with a woman I didn't know, a mom of a boy who recently transferred into our Pack. So I figured I had to entertain them. That's what I do at parties. I feel the need to entertain people.
Brandon had been talking about how he's been skiing and that he drove in the snow for the first time last week. I told him about how my mom made mistakes, but did a few things right too. She always insisted that I practice doing doughnuts in an empty parking lot every year at the first snow. If it was a weekday, I'd go to a church. If it was Sunday, I'd go to school and practice.
I told him I wasn't sure why I was telling him this story. It wasn't a story that made me look good. In fact, I made some mistakes, huge mistakes, when I was younger that could have been fatal. This was one of them. Maybe I'll tell you some of those other stories someday.
In 1978, I'd been driving in snow for three years. I wasn't bad at it, but I took to heart my mother's warning that I should practice spinning around and learning to manage that motion with my car. I still believe it's good advice. There was a big snow, a blizzard, really, and there was 39 inches of snow on the ground and in a lot of places, it had drifted. We all dug out and the plows did their job, but the weather wasn't done with us yet. Temperatures went to near 32 degrees, long enough for the clouds to throw a layer of ice on top of that snow, then plummeted to a little below zero (Fahrenheit). The plows came out again, cracked the sheet of ice and laid down another layer of salt. I headed out to the school parking lot to practice driving on the ice. The lot had been plowed of the big snow, but there was still a thick sheet of ice to play on. I spun and accelerated into it to make the car spin faster. It was fun. I think that what my mother had in mind for me was to try to correct the spin, but I'm sure I got something out of it, just the same. What I didn't count on was the surge of adrenaline I got.
When I was done, I headed right out onto a divided highway. Somehow, with all of that adrenaline, I did the exact opposite of what I should be doing and gunned the engine when I fishtailed a little and spun my ugly Ford Granada straight into a deep bank of snow alongside the road.
Now, what I didn't know was that the snow up over the top of the roof was undisturbed, that my car had made a single hole entering that tough snow and there was no other indication that anything had happened. What I did know was that I couldn't see a thing outside my car but snow. I was completely engulfed. There was a faint glow of light through the snow and windows and I could see a small hole of daylight out the back of the car. I couldn't open my door more than a couple of inches. I was trapped.
At that point, fear grew in me. Not only was I going to be in trouble with my mom for wrecking the car, she'd have to pay for a tow truck. I could even get a ticket if the police found me. Worse than that, I realized, was that if the police didn't catch me, if no one found me, I just might die in my ugly car in this weather. Holy crap!
I jammed the car door into the wall of snow some more, but it wouldn't budge. I tried the other door. It was frozen completely shut. I tried the windows but couldn't roll them down either. I had only scraped small circles to see through. It would be getting dark in a while and what little light I had would disappear completely. What good would it do to scream? No one would hear me. I couldn't get out. I was freaked.
This was a tomb.
I sat quietly with my fear for a while. I was getting cold. I turned the key and started the engine. Good. I put the car into reverse and rocked my wheels the way my mother had taught me. Each time I rocked forward, there was a sickening crunch against the front windshield, but I was determined to keep rocking. I tried to time my shifting from forward to reverse to coincide with the rocking, pausing a half a beat before putting it into forward again to see if I could keep going backward. I finally rocked out of that hole, getting up some speed in reverse and blindly backed out onto the highway. I knew that I might get smeared by a semi truck if one was coming just then. Dumb luck. I got the car moving forward and got the hell out of Dodge.
A couple of days later, I was headed home from school on that same road when I saw a couple of State Patrol cars stopped by my hole. Three uniformed men stood there staring into it. I kept on driving, feeling as if they might be able to track me down, wondering what they might be able to see, in that snow, of my story.
I didn't tell that story to Brandon to talk about fear. I told it to be funny, but today, it's a different story. There's a place where fear meets nothingness. If I had died in that tomb of snow, so what? It would hurt at first, but then it wouldn't, and it would be over. What would that mean? Nothing? Is that where fear comes in, that in the end, it all means nothing? Or is the fear something else? Is it so closely tied with hope, hope of simple survival, that it, by itself, can get you out of a hole that feels like a tomb, even if it's just to spend another day making dinner and watching a movie with your family? Nope, I'm not ready to give up my fear, not just yet.
Thank you for listening, jb
I went to church. I didn't get much done in the afternoon because I came home tired and napped too long. I went to the store, bought food for dinner. I ran into somebody I knew at the grocery store. We talked about easy babies and hard ones. Nick wasn't an easy baby. Oh, I loved the way he could get people to laugh just by arching an eyebrow, but he wasn't an easy baby. He laughed any time we said the word, 'Doodlebug.' It didn't work on my friend's baby today. Nick also laughed when we whistled. In fact, when he was six months old, he was holding his mouth in the right way and whistled. It was just a single note, but he got excited and whistled the same note in and out faster and faster as if he'd discovered an important key to a code. After that, he whistled a lot while I was changing his diaper. I whistle sometimes when I'm afraid.
That's it. That's all I did. Then Mike, Nick and I watched a bad movie from Redbox.
I think I have an ordinary week coming, but who knows? What is ordinary? Well, for me, it's a quiet life. I don't turn on the television very often. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to walk dogs with my friend. I want to begin the work to get rid of and pack away some extra stuff. We have too much stuff. It's bothering me. Mike's office and the cabinets in the kitchens are my first target. See, there it is. Nothing.
I did the minimum today. I cleaned out the litter boxes. I want to move Buddy's litter box downstairs, out of the kitchen. There's something nasty about having a litter box in the kitchen. Bad feng shui, I would guess. I wonder what the rules of feng shui are. Yeah, Wikipedia has this college-style essay about feng shui that says nothing. More nothingness. Did I lose you yet?
So, I've been having vivid dreams lately. Last night, I dreamed that Buddy was having kittens, but he was having trouble and was going to die if I didn't stay and help him. (Never mind that Buddy is a male cat. This was a dream, remember?) For some reason, I just had to leave him and when I came back, it looked as if he were dead and there was a little wet kitten next to him that I was sure I could never keep alive without him. I awoke fearful but there was love in it too. Buddy really is a sweet cat. My dreams lately have been difficult, full of fear. I don't know why.
In church today, my minister said that to follow Jesus you have to give up fear. Really? I don't always agree with this minister. I guess I never have agreed with everything any minister preached except one exceptional man, Dr. Gingery, but then I was pretty young and impressionable back then. Someone told me once, that I couldn't possibly be a real Christian because of these disbeliefs. Well, maybe that's true.
I have so many doubts about giving up fear, though. Somehow that unearned confidence that I've seen shining in people's eyes when they talk about Jesus gives me the creeps. Life is hard. Sometimes it's scary, really scary. If you don't understand fear, you could walk down the center of an interstate wearing a black jacket at night and expect to live. Doesn't fear have an important job?
When I'm walking along the trail at dusk with Teddy, I watch him. If he's relaxed, I'm relaxed, usually. He has a better nose than I do and better night vision. I don't want to walk around in my life being afraid to live, but I'm damn sure I'm not giving up my right to fear. Fear has saved my life more than once.
When?
Last night, I told a story to Brandon. Brandon is the guy who babysat for Nick and Adrian and he helps me in the yard sometimes. He's a good kid and I'm more honest with him than I am with other kids his age because I know him pretty well.
He called at 5:30 last night, telling Mike that he had a dead battery and his parents were up skiing. Would Mike come to where he worked and give him a jump? I knew exactly what Brandon was doing. He was trying to get Mike out of the house for a surprise party that the Cub Scout den was throwing for him at the Roadhouse to say 'thank you' for all of his dedication. Mike really did deserve this party and I was happy it remained a surprise to the end. So at dinner, Brandon was across from me along with a woman I didn't know, a mom of a boy who recently transferred into our Pack. So I figured I had to entertain them. That's what I do at parties. I feel the need to entertain people.
Brandon had been talking about how he's been skiing and that he drove in the snow for the first time last week. I told him about how my mom made mistakes, but did a few things right too. She always insisted that I practice doing doughnuts in an empty parking lot every year at the first snow. If it was a weekday, I'd go to a church. If it was Sunday, I'd go to school and practice.
I told him I wasn't sure why I was telling him this story. It wasn't a story that made me look good. In fact, I made some mistakes, huge mistakes, when I was younger that could have been fatal. This was one of them. Maybe I'll tell you some of those other stories someday.
In 1978, I'd been driving in snow for three years. I wasn't bad at it, but I took to heart my mother's warning that I should practice spinning around and learning to manage that motion with my car. I still believe it's good advice. There was a big snow, a blizzard, really, and there was 39 inches of snow on the ground and in a lot of places, it had drifted. We all dug out and the plows did their job, but the weather wasn't done with us yet. Temperatures went to near 32 degrees, long enough for the clouds to throw a layer of ice on top of that snow, then plummeted to a little below zero (Fahrenheit). The plows came out again, cracked the sheet of ice and laid down another layer of salt. I headed out to the school parking lot to practice driving on the ice. The lot had been plowed of the big snow, but there was still a thick sheet of ice to play on. I spun and accelerated into it to make the car spin faster. It was fun. I think that what my mother had in mind for me was to try to correct the spin, but I'm sure I got something out of it, just the same. What I didn't count on was the surge of adrenaline I got.
When I was done, I headed right out onto a divided highway. Somehow, with all of that adrenaline, I did the exact opposite of what I should be doing and gunned the engine when I fishtailed a little and spun my ugly Ford Granada straight into a deep bank of snow alongside the road.
Now, what I didn't know was that the snow up over the top of the roof was undisturbed, that my car had made a single hole entering that tough snow and there was no other indication that anything had happened. What I did know was that I couldn't see a thing outside my car but snow. I was completely engulfed. There was a faint glow of light through the snow and windows and I could see a small hole of daylight out the back of the car. I couldn't open my door more than a couple of inches. I was trapped.
At that point, fear grew in me. Not only was I going to be in trouble with my mom for wrecking the car, she'd have to pay for a tow truck. I could even get a ticket if the police found me. Worse than that, I realized, was that if the police didn't catch me, if no one found me, I just might die in my ugly car in this weather. Holy crap!
I jammed the car door into the wall of snow some more, but it wouldn't budge. I tried the other door. It was frozen completely shut. I tried the windows but couldn't roll them down either. I had only scraped small circles to see through. It would be getting dark in a while and what little light I had would disappear completely. What good would it do to scream? No one would hear me. I couldn't get out. I was freaked.
This was a tomb.
I sat quietly with my fear for a while. I was getting cold. I turned the key and started the engine. Good. I put the car into reverse and rocked my wheels the way my mother had taught me. Each time I rocked forward, there was a sickening crunch against the front windshield, but I was determined to keep rocking. I tried to time my shifting from forward to reverse to coincide with the rocking, pausing a half a beat before putting it into forward again to see if I could keep going backward. I finally rocked out of that hole, getting up some speed in reverse and blindly backed out onto the highway. I knew that I might get smeared by a semi truck if one was coming just then. Dumb luck. I got the car moving forward and got the hell out of Dodge.
A couple of days later, I was headed home from school on that same road when I saw a couple of State Patrol cars stopped by my hole. Three uniformed men stood there staring into it. I kept on driving, feeling as if they might be able to track me down, wondering what they might be able to see, in that snow, of my story.
I didn't tell that story to Brandon to talk about fear. I told it to be funny, but today, it's a different story. There's a place where fear meets nothingness. If I had died in that tomb of snow, so what? It would hurt at first, but then it wouldn't, and it would be over. What would that mean? Nothing? Is that where fear comes in, that in the end, it all means nothing? Or is the fear something else? Is it so closely tied with hope, hope of simple survival, that it, by itself, can get you out of a hole that feels like a tomb, even if it's just to spend another day making dinner and watching a movie with your family? Nope, I'm not ready to give up my fear, not just yet.
Thank you for listening, jb
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