Interdependence Day

Last night, the Fourth of July, our daughters, my wife and I were playing cards at the kitchen table when fireworks began sounding in earnest. They had been going off occasionally all day, but as evening came down, regular volleys of minor explosions and whistling rockets sounded across the city. We went outside but couldn't see much. We live amidst drumlins, ice age deposits, and tall trees. The fireworks were being shot from neighborhoods on the other side.

Let's go see, I said.

We scrunched into the front of Dad's '72 Chevy pickup. The girls scanned the sky, pointing at each new explosion, their heads turning and turning. I watched the road, my arm dangling out the window, the truck rolling slowly, my mind at ease, content, happy.

We ended up on the northeast side of town. I pulled into the lot the Syracuse Northeast Community Center shares with Dr. Weeks school. My wife and I climbed out and stood beside the truck, our older daughter climbed into the truck bed for better views, and our younger daughter kept to the safety of the cab. Fireworks soared into the sky from all four directions, asynchronous, un-choreographed, a jazz improvisation of bright explosions and color.

It was all just right for us. We had gone out on a whim, searched out what we wanted, and relaxed into the wonder of it all. We were parked in the lot of my new job, a place that brings me unbelievable joy and challenge, that has made our family life better. I'm no longer miserable, counting days until I can retire, dreading each new day of school. Parked there, I felt ownership and responsibility to my family and the community. Around us, over our heads, the night erupted in celebration.

This year's Fourth Of July was full of challenges. The white supremacist in the White House and his cowardly enablers on the right believe Independence Day represents going it alone and being above others. They're dead wrong.

Last night, in the parking lot on Syracuse's northeast side, we celebrated our interdependence and love, the challenges and excitement of serving our neighbors, and the memory of Dad embodied in that old truck. When the fireworks wound down, we climbed into the truck, sitting tightly together on one shared seat, and drove back to the home we share. We watched colored sparks soar into the air at random across our city, celebrating all we mean to one another and all we are to become together. Happy Interdependence Day, everyone.

It'll Be Fine

Three colleagues visited yesterday. We sat outside eight feet apart, took off our masks, settled into the shade and sun, and let ourselves talk easily. There was business to do, but first we chatted about families and the pandemic. One woman said, "it'll be fine." A few moments later when another concern came up, she said again, "it'll be fine." Minutes later, there it was again. "It'll be fine" began echoing inside me.

We moved onto the business of helping people in a time when we can't come together. "It'll be fine," came up again, again, and again, all of us saying it by then, returning to it like faith in which I found I was a believer.

That was yesterday. Today I walked to work half listening to a podcast. My mind drifted on the ideas from the podcast, the warm morning, the blue sky, the movement of my body through time and space. I'm in a new job, responsible for others, and with more to learn than since the births of my children. On the walk to work I don't dawdle or hurry. The walk settles me and helps me engage with ideas deeply. It moves me from a list of to-dos and insecurities to acceptamce and a firm belief that "it'll be fine."

I used to think acceptance was surrender, the end, but it's a way of saying, this is the world in this moment, this is who I am, and it'll be fine because the world and I are in balance. I'll be a changed person tomorrow but still be me. The world will have shifted but still be the place on which I stand.

I'm a person of extraordinary fortune, surrounded by love, doing challenging work that brings me joy. I walk a path of wonder. "It'll be fine" because it already is fine and because I'll keep working to make it fine.

I get now what my friend was saying yesterday. "It'll be fine," is a prayer, a call to action, a faith in our fellow human beings. I've repeated "it'll be fine" all day now. The sun has set and I'm ready for bed. "It'll be fine," I tell myself one last time, the echo coming back sounding for all the world like "amen."

The Brakes

In the dream I can't stop Dad's old pickup. It's not careening down the highway at seventy-six miles per hour. Even in dreams my life is calmer than that. We're rolling in reverse through the night, Dad and I. My head is turned, looking behind. Dad stares ahead. The night is impossibly dark. The truck's feeble lights swallowed by dream darkness. There aren't even any shapes behind me, just a sense of something. Rocks, a stream, concrete walls, other cars, someone's cat or child. I push the brake pedal, first gently then to the floor. The truck still rolls. I hurt my leg pushing against the pedal. My head still turned backward, my eyes searching the nothingness, my heart screaming. Dad stares ahead, at peace with all he sees. I can't make that truck stop. I stand on the brakes, my mind spinning faster until I come awake, rolled onto my side, in dim morning light. The truck and Dad fade. I turn to look behind, out the bedroom window, and feel myself falling. There was never anything behind us, just an emptiness into which I've long been falling. Having made the trip, Dad could have told me that standing on the brakes against it means nothing, nothing at all.

New Morning

This morning I have nowhere to be, nothing to do, and no one expecting me. Instead of rushing to make the coffee, grumbling about the dishwasher, and worrying over the clock as I write Morning Pages, I feel light, content, unencumbered, almost healthy.

Stress has not been my best friend or at least I've not learned how to accept it as my guest. This morning I weigh just shy of two-twenty at the end of week I hoped I'd be two-seventeen. I ate my stress this week. I tried to resist it.

There has to be a better way.

Better sleep helps. Last night I went to bed without electronics and fell right into deep sleep. Simple measures. Ben Franklin was right about that early to bed, early to rise stuff.

Writing helps. I rewrote someone else's piece and felt great playing on the court of my skills. In my new job, thinking in solitude with pen on paper brings clarity, comfort, and understanding.

Fresh air helps. Walking to and from work each day, reading outside, shooting baskets, and running all cleanse me.

Timers help. I spend exactly half an hour reading a report, an hour writing a proposal, twenty minutes decoding a budget. I need tight limits on scrolling through YouTube and reading the news, things I do out of habit that don't feel good at all.

Stressed out, heavy, and under-rested, I'm unsure and feel out of balance. Today I have started anew, begun a return to balance, but this is a long game. I'll be at it all year. Hell, I'll be at it the rest of my days. That's okay because I'm curious what's out there and what's within me. I'm in the mood to explore.

I was stressed to distraction this week. I'd prefer to feel healthier, to accept rather than resist stress. Sleep, writing, fresh air, and timers help.

I said there's nothing I have to do today, no one I have to see, but that's not entirely true. Even on weekends I have obligations. It's just that I'm not resisting things so much. That feels like the first step. It feels like a way through. Mostly though, it just feels better.