It by no means happens all at once. The weight of responsibility one suddenly acquires upon the birth of a first child is inconceivable by a naïve parent newly-become. There is a sense of protectiveness along with a conscious lack of understanding. Lessons that dwarf all others fill my cup to overflowing every day. At the point of flood, I try to zoom out, and, if successful, I see the situation as it is: less of an assault and more a rushing geyser exploding into the sky. I’ve been knocked down a few times by the force of the winds, and every time I get back up, I’ve got better footing. Thus is life. In my better moments, I acknowledge life and beauty as one.
The whole of the thing obliterates many of the little moments that will later come to define this time for our family and me. I wallow a bit when I think of what is lost; small details between Panda Puffs and Pete The Cat. So much happens every single day, every minute, and I can’t put my finger on any single change. It’s a blessing that leaves me somewhat in mourning. Yesterday takes with it a presence, which is replaced by a new and different gift of life every morning. The web we’ve been weaving is yet unbroken. I am a string through his childhood and I revel in my good fortune not to be forced away to work or fight for safety or freedom. I can enjoy these moments. And so I do.
He’s learning to string words into sentences. Written letters, words, he’ll learn eventually, are symbols for our speech, which he’s already figured out are used to communicate needs and ideas. To say something, and keep it, I can write it down. It is a representation of a memory. But no matter how well that picture is painted, it’s not the real thing. The snapshot of the memory isn’t even the original memory of the thing. Every moment is completely brand new; unique. These times are happening now. I’ve been little but in awe.
I’m aware that I’m witnessing a miracle. Perhaps to my future lament, many of our journey’s intricacies have fallen and will fall through the cracks, memories like sculptures blown to bits in the kiln due to a lack of time to force out the air bubbles. But it’s less my goal to capture these times as it once was than it is just to be here, as fully and presently as possible. To capture a butterfly in a jar inevitably robs it of the unobstructed majesty that generates its beauty. I may not have all the answers to this test, but I’ll never walk out.
Things certainly get tough. At times ‘chaos’ is the only word that occupies my mind. But to forget for a single moment the nature of this gift would be the greatest possible shame. That is, to forget that we are here and alive, and what’s more, that I have the privilege to be witness to the growth of our healthy, resilient seed into a sturdy sapling- to have such a hand in whether he withers or thrives. Equal to life itself is the value I place in my ability to choose to feel gratitude for my fortune and my family.
My memories will forever remain of us just running down the street, around the yard, along the river, communicating in bursts: “Bubble, Dada, Help, Beep,” or “Pop, Roro, Hom.” Most recently and most often we get the autonomous, “No, no, no.” Engrained in my mind is his shy but satisfied smile that appears after wrapping his lips around some new combination of sounds. “Bo Peep?” Or the grin that grows from within him when I challenge him with my eyes to a footrace. His thin hairs grow further down the back of his neck, and they now cover his ears. His facial structure can and does change from one nap to the next. The Aerosmith song is relevant: “I don’t wanna miss a thing.” When he sleeps, whether I let them or not, the emotions pour in. Am I doing this right? My deepest insecurities come out little by little. I’m faced with my immaturities and I’m forced to grow, because I won’t turn away. Parenthood is a slow awakening.
The power of a consistent effort has never been lost on me, but I see its potential and necessity now more than ever. As Americans we’re naturally good at debasing ourselves, railing on our shortcomings as if they were kinks in copper beams to be hammered out. I don’t believe that all societies are so focused on fault-finding as we are. It seems we beat ourselves up for not beating ourselves up enough. At what point do we resign from feeling bad simply because we feel like we’re supposed to? When will we allow ourselves to simply feel this blissfulness of life; to appreciate and give thanks for the gift of the present moment. The more I look at suffering, the more I see it as a choice- even if it’s just a pause that’s needed to change perspective. At the moment when pain is inflicted, what do we do? When we are consumed by frustration and disequilibrium, ravaged by fear, how do we maintain composure, control, calm? As a parental prophet put it: “What do you do with the mad that you feel?” These choices define more than just my future. I have to take more caution than ever; will I act out of spite or fury or jealousy when it arises, or will I act properly? That is, with compassion, for myself, and for everyone and everything. I promise I will do the best I can, always.
This love has no boundaries, and could never be extinguished, no matter what happens. It’s taken months for me to get anything out in writing that I think is worthy to stamp in time. Even this barely scrapes the surface. But I have to try. The Dao says, “Existence is beyond the power of words.” But words can be used. Thanks to this golden energy that surrounds, I cannot see existence as anything less than a rising sun on an ocean horizon that stretches out to infinity. Like the freedom of a butterfly, it’s impossible to capture.
That’s why I’m glad there’s music.
5/6/21