Ordinary Sunday

I wake without the alarm and lie in bed. The cat climbs over me saying it's time for food. I ignore her. It is warm beneath the blankets and I have no pressing demands on me this morning. The cat goes away disappointed while I doze in and out of the lightest sleep. I hear our younger daughter rise and use the bathroom. She is up in time to eat breakfast and get ready to go. Both girls are due at temple where they facilitate Hebrew school. I get up and go downstairs.

The dishwasher waits to be unloaded and a few dirty dishes soak in the sink. I open the blinds and check the kettle for water. I light the gas burner and suppress a shudder. I grind coffee while the kettle ticks then hisses as it moves to a boil. Opening the dishwasher and pulling down the towel, I put away plates three at a time and take silverware to the drawer by the handful. The dishwasher empty, I wash the dishes in the sink, dry them, and wipe the counter. The kettle is aboil and I shut off the gas. Before making coffee, I unplug my phone and check mail. Nothing there. I tap the icon for The New York Times, see the headlines from last night, and turn it off as my younger daughter appears in the kitchen to fix her breakfast. Good morning, I say, clear and strong, because I love you would seem an odd, too intense way to begin the day. I'm hoping Good morning has enough love wrapped in it. When she says a quiet, still sleepy, normal Sunday good morning, I react in the usual way but feel out of the ordinary in so many ways.

I pour near-boiling water over coffee grounds in a plastic press and plunge it through to my usual mug. I empty the grounds into the garbage, wash the press, and carry the mug toward the living room, stopping at the the den to ask my daughter if she thinks her older sister is awake. She shrugs, not having checked on her. She's willing to be her sister's keeper, but wary of waking the bear. I carry my coffee to the living room desk and go check if my girl is awake.

She is not. The dog who sleeps in her room rises with tail beating the morning air, happy as ever to see that although I disappeared for her in the night I've magically come back to her again this morning. The dog sleeps in our older daughter's room to protect her from the suspicions she has always held about entering the kingdom of sleep, but I know there are few things from which the dog or I can protect her. I softly call her name, squeeze her calf through the blanket, tell her the time, and say you should probably get up. She opens her eyes and sits up rubbing them just as she did long ago in the crib. Quietly I say, good morning, hoping again that it communicates what I really need to tell her. I give her leg a squeeze meant to show that I will protect her though I know she is of the age when she must do most of that for herself. I go back downstairs to find the car key she will need to drive herself and her sister to the temple.

At my desk I sip the coffee which is as strong as I always make it. The furnace comes to life and again I shudder, torn between savoring its warmth on a cold October Sunday and the disturbing thought of more burning gas. I take the usual three sheets of paper from my folio, uncap the fountain pen with which I almost always write, and begin describing this ordinary Sunday morning, a day of worship for some, for teaching many of the children, and for sipping coffee while writing. For some however it is yet another day of fear and hatred for others in a world they believe should belong only to them.

Yesterday in Pittsburgh, a fraction of a man shot and killed at least eleven people who were together in a temple of worship. That synagogue is now a crime scene and the site of tragedy I wish was unimaginable but is instead an ordinary fact of American life. I imagine the temple is surrounded by police and other law enforcement when it would ordinarily be filled with children and caregivers.

Last night our Rabbi emailed the congregation that there will be additional security in place at our temple this morning. I appreciate that but such actions, while warranted and responsible, are largely symbolic window dressing in a nation that celebrates guns and winning more than life and safety. No amount of armed protection can really protect any of us and I know that guns beget guns, violence, and the ordinary tragedy of dead children followed by the hollow thoughts and prayers of politicians too afraid to do anything meaningful about it.

Yesterday an even smaller fraction of a man than the gunman stood behind the Seal of the President of the United States and claimed that more armed guards are the only thing that can keep the innocent safe. He implied that any notions of gun control are ridiculous and then whipped a crowd into a frenzy with hateful vitriol against anyone who looks, believes, or identifies differently than they do. He told them that people are coming to steal and destroy their way of living. It was his ordinary speech and included his usual argument that anyone who disagrees with him or points to the facts is a liar and enemy who should be put down with force.

It's an ordinary Sunday in America the day after another shooting that will be dealt with less as tragedy and more as our way of life, ordinary as making coffee and worrying that my children will be shot dead before noon, before I can tell them in the least ordinary tone that I love them beyond any love I ever thought I could feel.

Note From The Parking Lot Last Week

Written a week ago while waiting for my daughter to finish swim practice.
Things have changed since then, for the better, as things often do.

My therapist asked today when I want to come back. I flipped a page in my weekly planner considering that I might need to come back in a week. No, I thought and flipped to the second page and offered three dates. She responded that she was gone for half of that week and so had nothing then. I turned another page and read off two more dates, one of which worked. There was an unusual tone in her voice throughout this exchange. It had been a heavy duty session. I was writing the appointment in my planner, head down, when she said, "if you need to see me sooner, you can call." It was the first time she has offered that option so far as I can remember. My memory may be failing me. I've had other times of trouble. She caught me a little flat-footed. Had I seemed that far gone? When she said it, I felt a weighted bar laid across my shoulders. Maybe it was there before and I was just now really feeling it. Whatever the case, I felt myself sinking under it.

At home, my younger daughter was phoneless after having dropped hers in soup this morning. A high school girl living without a phone feels strange and awful. Easy for me to imagine surviving without one. I grew up in another time and now have a phone in my pocket nearly always. I didn't say, this might be good for you, because it didn't feel good to her. She said, friendships hurt. Sometimes, I told her. She reminds me too much of myself, wanting love that seems unavailable from others and which she can't muster for herself. I wondered how to help when the air seemed to have gone out of the world. "Secure your own oxygen mask before attempting to help others." I gave her a hug and my phone to use for the next day.

My wife's stomach went into revolt and she hasn't slept in days. Her allergic eyes swelled one quarter shut and no one seems to know what to do about that. She has seen all the doctors but her maladies remain mysteries. She's also working a new job and that too feels like trying to get through each day without enough rest and too many things going wrong.

Then my older daughter feels unnoticed. As a child she didn't quite say "you don't love me enough" but we read between her silences. Telling her, holding her, doing what we can for her, these things are and aren't enough. Love is wondrous but too often we worry more about it running out, going down some drain. She swims laps in the pool to prepare for her next meet and I wonder does all that work strengthen the metaphorical heart too?

The odometer will tick over to 173,100 within the next mile. It may only be feet away from this parking spot or perhaps longer than I can go tonight. I'm just so tired.

---

The paycheck came and relieved some of the worries. I've begun to see possible ways of moving on from my current job. We have gone out with friends. My younger daughter understands that some things come from within. My older daughter knows that some things are coming to her from without. My wife got an eye cream and knows some of what happened with her stomach but still can't sleep.

The odometer is approaching 174,000. The car starts every morning. Even when I'm tired, it's nothing at all to drive the miles and a joy to take my girls and myself toward our destinations.

A week and a half from now I'll return to therapy and see what's next.

Good Days

The perfect day isn't perfect. It is instead good, very good perhaps. I too often overlook good in search of better and perfect. Good is good. It is contentment which ought to be my only goal because I can choose to feel content.

Since this is my blog, let's focus on me for a bit. Let me tell you about my perfectly good day.

It begins without the alarm but in the October dark. I get up from under a thick blanket and replace blanket with coffee, sleeping with living, dreaming with writing. I go downstairs, grind beans, and press a good cup of coffee. I take my pen and coffee to the basement to write three pages by hand. There's no way I would rather begin each day.

Morning Pages written, I make buttered toast with jam and eat on the couch while reading a book as the family wakes and comes down one by one to get ready for school and work. I offer to drive kids to school or walk the dog, whatever works for them and by eight o'clock the house is mine. I put on a record, boot the Chromebook, and get to work.

First I focus on developing things. Creating. Drafting. Typing. This is when a blog post likely comes to mind, goes to my fingers, appears on the screen, and eventually gets posted online. This is when I continue working on long essays, stories, and sections of a book. I work through a few records until about eleven or noon at which point I print some of that stuff and get out of the chair.

My body needs to move. I go for a walk or a run to work my mind in a different way. I may think about writing or maybe just move. A shower follows and maybe a load of laundry or some brief housework. I warm up leftovers or make somethings for lunch and eat while reading the web or my book.

Then maybe a nap. I set an alarm, read on the couch until I fall asleep and recharge. After that I probably go to the library, buy coffee beans, get cash, pick up something from the hardware store, or make a stop at the co-op. Much as I can, I run these errands on foot, preferably with the dog. Moving my body after the nap puts me back in the world.

The kids and my wife come home and I spend time with them, drive them where they need to go, attend to their needs. We cook dinner and eat together. After dinner we clean up.

The rest of the evening is unscheduled. We may catch the latest Doctor Who or Atypical together. I might would go out with a friend. Whatever the case, the day ends with Stephanie and me tucked into bed, the lights out, rain turning to light snow.

I drift into sleep thinking, I can't wait to do it again tomorrow.

That's a good day. Just about perfect, though I'm content with good. I could be content for years of days like that. Now I just have to make it happen.

Dialing Dad's Number

I just watched an old MASH episode in which Hawkeye is listed by the Army as dead. Hawkeye's dad tries to get through to B. J. Hunnicutt but the call fails. Hawkeye, once he figures out that he's dead and that his dad believes he's dead, is desperate to get in touch with his dad but the lines are down because Eisenhower is coming to Korea. Hawkeye can't get paid, can't get mail, and can't reach his dad, but in the end can't leave Korea and go home either.

The end of the episode has Hawkeye finally on the phone with his father, laughing and enjoying himself. Then he says, "Dad? Dad?" as if he's going to say something important, but it's the line gone dead again. Hawkeye tosses the handset and sits back satisfied that his dad knows he's alive but beyond sad to be so far away from his father, to be so disconnected.

On my phone I still have dad listed in my favorites. I always will. Every so often I place a call to him. It never goes through. I listen to the tones telling me the number is no longer active or valid or whatever the phone companies call it. The line is dead. There's no getting through. And I can't even blame it on Eisenhower.

Someday Dad's number will be assigned to someone else. I imagine that call. Me saying, hello? The other person asking, who is this? Do I tell that person this was my dad's number and that I miss him? If I do, I wonder how the other person will react. I know how I would answer that call from some stranger. I'd ask, how long has he been gone? I would say, tell me a story about him and you. Then I would listen.

Well, there was this one time. It was ordinary. Nothing special. He drove over to my house and parked his truck on the street. I went out to meet him. He asked, You ready? I said, I am. The night was cold and dry, clear all the way up to the heavens. We got in the car, me in the driver's seat, Dad lowering himself into the passenger's seat slowly, slamming the door.

I'd ask, Where were you going?

Up to the Carrier Dome. See, Dad and I had season tickets to the Syracuse Women's Basketball games. We sat in row G, mid court, and Dad talked with the ticket takers, the fans who sat nearby, and me. We cheeredas when the women won and even if they lost because it wasn't about the games. It was about Dad and me.

I'd say, that sounds good.

It was good. It really was.

Then we'd both listen to the sounds of memory, the silence of our dead fathers.

Maybe the person at the other end would ask if I was still there.

And I would say, yeah, I'm still here. We're both still here. It's okay. We're both still here.