Ethan
When you were 1, you shot hoops. Pretty good for a toddler, too. You had just learned to walk upright and me and your mom had bought you this plastic baby basketball hoop. And you loved it. I have the video somewhere.
When you were 4, you looked at me in tears after I berated you for crying and not joining your first soccer game. "You never taught me how" you said, through tears. I felt horrible and vowed to never let you feel that way again.
When you were 5, I started to push you from soccer to football. And you played one very successful flag football season. But soon after, you started regularly stating your intent: I will be a basketball player. Not like it was a question either.
I admit I kind of wanted you to be a football player. But then 2 things happened. First my dad flooded me with articles about the health risks of football. Then, you impressed me and everyone in the family with your familiar, repeating resolve: you would be a basketball player.
Two summers ago, as an 8 year old, you were the starting point guard and arguably the team's best player as a 2nd grader on a team in a league full of 3rd, 4th and 5th graders. E-train Higgins had a reverse layup that couldn't be defended, and a dribble that couldn't be broken.
This year, you blossomed. In the city-wide 4th-grade YMCA championship, you nailed a game-tying 3 with 11 seconds left to send the game into overtime, tied 28-28. A game your team went on to win 33-30. A game in which you and your teammates trailed 15-1 in the second quarter. A game against bigger, faster, but less team-oriented players. All the practice, all the work, all the coaching paid off in that one moment when you were most needed.
Now you're in club-league play. You play the game better and smarter than I ever thought possible at your age. I'm so proud of you. And even though I get on your case sometimes, even though I push you to be better all around - school and basketball and as a person - you always come through.
I'm proud of you son. You've proven to be one of the strong ones.
Life is long and hard and full of challenges, but I'm sure you will continue to rise up to them. You will get knocked down, you will fail, you will not get 1st place all the time. But you won't quit. You'll keep going, through the pain, the agony, the desperation. That is the legacy of your family, and one you will carry on, as my son, a brother, cousin, friend, and someday maybe a husband and father yourself.
Stand tall son. You're one of the strong ones.
-Dad
Sunday, August 18, 2019
Monday, May 9, 2016
Listen and be heard
Last year Ethan started pee-wee soccer. His first game he would not play, he just sat in my lap and cried, like a lot of 4 year olds in their first soccer game.
We had prepared and talked about it beforehand. Got the cleats, shin guards, socks, shorts etc. But when it was game time, he folded like a house of cards.
I wasn't too pleased, and I let him know it. I started down the route that I hear so many other parents take, basically letting their 4 year olds know how disappointed they are in them.
Later, after we got home, I asked him what happened...Daddy was disappointed etc. As I was talking to him and explaining how it was not acceptable to cry on the sidelines, I asked him why he didn't want to play.
Tears welling up in his eyes, he looked at me and said, "Because I don't know -how- to play".
Bam. Just like that, the 4-year old put it in perspective. Of course he doesn't. I never took the time to practice with him or let him just kick the ball around. Dagger to the heart, but not left unheard.
So, Dad went on a mission. Practice, drills, and focused attention all next week. Little by little the concepts sunk in and he let go if his fear.
Then, the following week, armed with his new found confidence...he scored 4 goals. And I was reminded again of the process of mastery...the slow, deliberate process that weeds out all the mistakes beforehand so all that is left at gametime is the poetry of motion, the simplicity and grace on the far end of complexity that the masters make look so easy. The realized vision that starts with the most simple yet complex of steps...the getting of the wanting to just kick that ball into the goal.
It was like watching a piece of fine art develop over time every time the artist had a chance (weekly) to learn something new.
Over the course of the season, he regularly scored 4, 5, even 10 goals once. I heard other parents literally say "check that kid's birth certificate" even though he was 4 in the 4 and 5 year old league.
My son both humbled me and inspired me that season.
We had prepared and talked about it beforehand. Got the cleats, shin guards, socks, shorts etc. But when it was game time, he folded like a house of cards.
I wasn't too pleased, and I let him know it. I started down the route that I hear so many other parents take, basically letting their 4 year olds know how disappointed they are in them.
Later, after we got home, I asked him what happened...Daddy was disappointed etc. As I was talking to him and explaining how it was not acceptable to cry on the sidelines, I asked him why he didn't want to play.
Tears welling up in his eyes, he looked at me and said, "Because I don't know -how- to play".
Bam. Just like that, the 4-year old put it in perspective. Of course he doesn't. I never took the time to practice with him or let him just kick the ball around. Dagger to the heart, but not left unheard.
So, Dad went on a mission. Practice, drills, and focused attention all next week. Little by little the concepts sunk in and he let go if his fear.
Then, the following week, armed with his new found confidence...he scored 4 goals. And I was reminded again of the process of mastery...the slow, deliberate process that weeds out all the mistakes beforehand so all that is left at gametime is the poetry of motion, the simplicity and grace on the far end of complexity that the masters make look so easy. The realized vision that starts with the most simple yet complex of steps...the getting of the wanting to just kick that ball into the goal.
It was like watching a piece of fine art develop over time every time the artist had a chance (weekly) to learn something new.
Over the course of the season, he regularly scored 4, 5, even 10 goals once. I heard other parents literally say "check that kid's birth certificate" even though he was 4 in the 4 and 5 year old league.
My son both humbled me and inspired me that season.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Windows of time
It doesn't take long. One minute they're covered in goo, gasping for their first breaths of air, then bawling because they can't fit all their toy people into the playskool bus you bought them. Shortly thereafter they get mobile and destroy everything in range without prejudice while at the same time learning to say I love you Daddy. Then come the first days of school which they see as a fun new adventure with playgrounds and classmates and leaving you with the un-grounded and irrational fears that they may face ridicule or isolation...or as I have come to discover, parental separation anxiety, just like our dog Duke used to display whenever one of us left.
Then the fun begins.
Daddy is the hero.
Stronger, taller, faster, smarter and more handsome and dashing than any other man that has ever existed.
These are really the best years, the years you want to maximize, to freeze in time. These are the years you discover things with them: The beach and the tides and all the wonders of a shoreline. The mountains, the snow, the altitude and the quietness of a remote meadow. Theme parks and rollercoasters. Leather-bound notebooks, Knights, Ladies and all sorts of characters at a Renaissance Festival. National parks and monuments and roadside tourist traps. Overpriced cave tours and under-priced museums. Interesting downtown areas that are only interesting to mom and dad. Summer campgrounds in new places with new and temporary friends, playgrounds, and strange 3-wheeled bikes that dad was hesitant to rent but glad he did. Remembering that dad said something about shoes and cactus and running around in the desert and yeah, flip-flops were a bad idea. Sitting around campfires on those same 6 chairs, and the conversations and s'mores that came with it.
And sometimes, sorrow. Like learning of the disappearance and death of a relatively young uncle, and wondering why mom and dad were gone for 2 weeks. Then wondering why they were different when they got home. Then wondering why they were so sad when they heard the news.
It's a cliche, but life is fleeting. Regardless of your belief system, in all the eternities, you don't get do-overs with the time you spend with your kids when they're young. I'm acutely aware of the age they gain every day, and regularly remind myself of the infinite value of every hug, kiss, wave and living acknowledgement we give each other. I try to treat them all like they are our last, for two reasons: 1) It could be and 2) I don't want our last to feel like I've been holding something back. No, I value my integrity too much to let someone I love see me die and wonder if I really meant it when I said I love them more than anything.
They will be off and away soon, citizens of their own future reality, forging a life of their own and coming to realize the fleeting nature of the things they hold most dear. Men talk of legacies and empires, and of course my children may inherit some of mine someday. But, as far as legacies go, my only real hope is that they simply remember the love they felt from their Daddy when they were young, seeing the things they did and feeling the things they did, in that special window of time when life was new and their minds were fresh.
Then the fun begins.
Daddy is the hero.
Stronger, taller, faster, smarter and more handsome and dashing than any other man that has ever existed.
These are really the best years, the years you want to maximize, to freeze in time. These are the years you discover things with them: The beach and the tides and all the wonders of a shoreline. The mountains, the snow, the altitude and the quietness of a remote meadow. Theme parks and rollercoasters. Leather-bound notebooks, Knights, Ladies and all sorts of characters at a Renaissance Festival. National parks and monuments and roadside tourist traps. Overpriced cave tours and under-priced museums. Interesting downtown areas that are only interesting to mom and dad. Summer campgrounds in new places with new and temporary friends, playgrounds, and strange 3-wheeled bikes that dad was hesitant to rent but glad he did. Remembering that dad said something about shoes and cactus and running around in the desert and yeah, flip-flops were a bad idea. Sitting around campfires on those same 6 chairs, and the conversations and s'mores that came with it.
And sometimes, sorrow. Like learning of the disappearance and death of a relatively young uncle, and wondering why mom and dad were gone for 2 weeks. Then wondering why they were different when they got home. Then wondering why they were so sad when they heard the news.
It's a cliche, but life is fleeting. Regardless of your belief system, in all the eternities, you don't get do-overs with the time you spend with your kids when they're young. I'm acutely aware of the age they gain every day, and regularly remind myself of the infinite value of every hug, kiss, wave and living acknowledgement we give each other. I try to treat them all like they are our last, for two reasons: 1) It could be and 2) I don't want our last to feel like I've been holding something back. No, I value my integrity too much to let someone I love see me die and wonder if I really meant it when I said I love them more than anything.
They will be off and away soon, citizens of their own future reality, forging a life of their own and coming to realize the fleeting nature of the things they hold most dear. Men talk of legacies and empires, and of course my children may inherit some of mine someday. But, as far as legacies go, my only real hope is that they simply remember the love they felt from their Daddy when they were young, seeing the things they did and feeling the things they did, in that special window of time when life was new and their minds were fresh.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Excavation, earth, and restoration
Holy Mary mother of God manual labor is hard. I say that in those terms because it sounds Catholic and for some reason, it sounds like the appropriate thing to preface my lamentations regarding pick, shovel and wheelbarrow. But I digress already. Yes, landscaping is hard if you have an ambitious plan and are doing a good portion of it yourself. It's also stressful because there is this big expensive mess in our front yard that runs a very high risk of becoming the stereotypical eternal project that those of the male persuasion seem to be pre-disposed to start and never finish. However, finish I will. Come hell or high water or credit card abuse, finish I will.
What's interesting to me is that the earth, in this story, just sits there and doesn't want to do anything except sit there and do nothing. "The" Earth is vibrant and changing and moving and evolving in so many other ways, but in my yard, shit just sits there. And that shit is heavy.
Days of pounding, breaking, lifting, shoveling and moving large chunks of aforementioned earth have left me sore and worn but with a renewed appreciation of why I avoided the allure of construction apprenticeships and criminal enterprises and went to college. But I will admit, smashing the shit out of something does something for the soul. Especially if it needed to be smashed and the replacement is entirely dictated by the needs of your soul. Yeah it's only a front yard, but it's MY front yard and dammit it's gonna be built like my front yard was meant to be built. Pleasant, organized, clean and appealing, but with a hint of different and a large dose of attention to details. And I sure as hell will not have any damn lantanas. Or palm trees.
What's interesting to me is that the earth, in this story, just sits there and doesn't want to do anything except sit there and do nothing. "The" Earth is vibrant and changing and moving and evolving in so many other ways, but in my yard, shit just sits there. And that shit is heavy.
Days of pounding, breaking, lifting, shoveling and moving large chunks of aforementioned earth have left me sore and worn but with a renewed appreciation of why I avoided the allure of construction apprenticeships and criminal enterprises and went to college. But I will admit, smashing the shit out of something does something for the soul. Especially if it needed to be smashed and the replacement is entirely dictated by the needs of your soul. Yeah it's only a front yard, but it's MY front yard and dammit it's gonna be built like my front yard was meant to be built. Pleasant, organized, clean and appealing, but with a hint of different and a large dose of attention to details. And I sure as hell will not have any damn lantanas. Or palm trees.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Love Shack
So Amy and I have pretty much completed the purging and re-settlement of our lives, at least for now. We just purchased our first house together, a semi-craftsman style bungalow on a 1/4 acre in a historical district in Mesa. Mostly restored but still needs touches and upgrades, which we now have a lifetime to work on and further settle the sediments in our healthy pond.
Divorce for us was like tossing a big rock in a small pond and watching the all sediments that had collected get kicked up and examined by the small trickle of life that was left flowing in and out of our souls. Values and possessions, ideas and dreams, fears and assumptions, all tossed up into the flow of life to get re-assessed, re-prioritized, re-valued.
Turned out we were living in some pretty toxic, lifeless, stagnant ponds.
It also turns out those ponds can get stagnant again pretty easily if you're not careful. What I didn't realize was that the way to keep the cleansing flow of life flowing strong was to keep pushing it out the other end of the pond.
So, back to the house. This is a big deal for me, because for the first time in my life, I really feel like this is a place that will be with me for a long time. I have never lived in the same place for more than about 3 years. Seems like I've always been moving. I remember growing up wishing that I just had a personal space, one that I din't have to share with siblings or the occasional daycare that my mom would start up from time to time when money was tight. One that wasn't just a stepping stone to a bigger, "more settled" house that never came. One that wasn't just a waypoint on some random journey to nowhere.
This place feels more right than anything I have anticipated moving into before. The future gem that others can't see. A place to plant our lives and branch out from, give back to our kids, family and community. A place to give our kids recurring memories and a place to call home that actually has our influence all over it. A place that doesn't require a house number to distinguish it from the rest of the street. A home that reflects who we are and what we value. It's about time.
Divorce for us was like tossing a big rock in a small pond and watching the all sediments that had collected get kicked up and examined by the small trickle of life that was left flowing in and out of our souls. Values and possessions, ideas and dreams, fears and assumptions, all tossed up into the flow of life to get re-assessed, re-prioritized, re-valued.
Turned out we were living in some pretty toxic, lifeless, stagnant ponds.
It also turns out those ponds can get stagnant again pretty easily if you're not careful. What I didn't realize was that the way to keep the cleansing flow of life flowing strong was to keep pushing it out the other end of the pond.
So, back to the house. This is a big deal for me, because for the first time in my life, I really feel like this is a place that will be with me for a long time. I have never lived in the same place for more than about 3 years. Seems like I've always been moving. I remember growing up wishing that I just had a personal space, one that I din't have to share with siblings or the occasional daycare that my mom would start up from time to time when money was tight. One that wasn't just a stepping stone to a bigger, "more settled" house that never came. One that wasn't just a waypoint on some random journey to nowhere.
This place feels more right than anything I have anticipated moving into before. The future gem that others can't see. A place to plant our lives and branch out from, give back to our kids, family and community. A place to give our kids recurring memories and a place to call home that actually has our influence all over it. A place that doesn't require a house number to distinguish it from the rest of the street. A home that reflects who we are and what we value. It's about time.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Persimmon haze
The dirt is caked on like a thick layer of powdered sugar. I feel everything. I live to ride again.
That is to say; I live, to ride again.
Rode the east/west loops yesterday. It had been awhile, and like most trails lately, I'm re-discovering them with a different body. I'm trying to restore to myself the body I had 3 years ago...lean, fast and aware. But 3 years of change and recovery has made me soft. I've dropped 15 pounds so far this year, looking to drop at least 30 more, but I'm finding age has decided I can't do that as fast as I used to. I was 29 when I finished grad school and found the time to again think about my body in addition to my mind and soul. I was almost 31 when the restoration was complete.
I'll be 38 in a month and I feel like I've aged 20 years since that triumphant day in November, just over 7 years ago. Just found some old pictures of me from 5 or 6 years ago and Amy said I looked like a cancer patient in some of them. I suppose, but those were the days of lean, fast and aware. And I want it back.
And get it back I will. Just posted another personal best on a familiar route and took another ride a few days later on a trail I thought I'd never enjoy again...but that Secret trail was even better than the one I'm so used to. I laugh at the pathetic meaning I once attached to it. Something about change, but now I know, it's just another trail, and my body feels the climbs just the same.
My lenses on my riding glasses are persimmon now, not dark grey. I like the clarity, but metaphorically, I like the fact that I can't hide my attention anymore. I never liked being hidden, but the haze that accumulated made it all to easy.
7 days now, 7 more rides. I've been ineffective this week. Time to wipe the haze away.
That is to say; I live, to ride again.
Rode the east/west loops yesterday. It had been awhile, and like most trails lately, I'm re-discovering them with a different body. I'm trying to restore to myself the body I had 3 years ago...lean, fast and aware. But 3 years of change and recovery has made me soft. I've dropped 15 pounds so far this year, looking to drop at least 30 more, but I'm finding age has decided I can't do that as fast as I used to. I was 29 when I finished grad school and found the time to again think about my body in addition to my mind and soul. I was almost 31 when the restoration was complete.
I'll be 38 in a month and I feel like I've aged 20 years since that triumphant day in November, just over 7 years ago. Just found some old pictures of me from 5 or 6 years ago and Amy said I looked like a cancer patient in some of them. I suppose, but those were the days of lean, fast and aware. And I want it back.
And get it back I will. Just posted another personal best on a familiar route and took another ride a few days later on a trail I thought I'd never enjoy again...but that Secret trail was even better than the one I'm so used to. I laugh at the pathetic meaning I once attached to it. Something about change, but now I know, it's just another trail, and my body feels the climbs just the same.
My lenses on my riding glasses are persimmon now, not dark grey. I like the clarity, but metaphorically, I like the fact that I can't hide my attention anymore. I never liked being hidden, but the haze that accumulated made it all to easy.
7 days now, 7 more rides. I've been ineffective this week. Time to wipe the haze away.
What a great song
Ha. So fitting in so many respects. Chase after it, you overgrown children, cause that's all you can ever do. Seek after that which you think you need...Amuse us, because at the end of the day, after all the words come out and and the only thing left is primal...who acts and who does what they're told?
You Don't Know What Love Is (The White Stripes):
In some respects
I suspect you've got a respectable side
When pushed and pulled and pressured
You seldom run and hide
But its for someone elses benefit
Not for what you wanna do
Until I realize that you've realized
I'm gonna say these words to you
You don't know what love is
You do as you're told
Just as a child at ten might act
But you're far too old
You're not hopeless or helpless
and I hate to sound cold
But you dont know what love is...
You just do as you're told
I can see your man
cant help but win
any problems that may arise
but in his mind there can be no sin
if you never criticize
you just keep on repeating
all those empty "I love you's"
until you say you deserve better
I'm gonna lay right into you
You don't know what love is
you just do as you're told
just as a child of ten might act
but your far too old
your not hopeless or helpless
and i hate to sound cold
but you don't know what love is
no you don't know what love is
no you don't know what love is
you just do as you're told
you do as you're told
yeah
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