Driving Home Alone

I don't miss commuting, but I'm all about the occasional long drive alone.

My daughter and I drove the New York State Thruway back to SUNY Brockport from Syracuse, talking, lapsing into silences, pointing out Teslas as they passed, and staring down the unwinding road ahead of us. Time on the road loosens her just enough to say things she might not otherwise. It's lovely.

After we unpacked her things in her room it was time for her swim practice. I said, "I guess I'll get going," hearing Dad's voice, the repeated rhythm of being a father. She didn't say anything or even nod, but there's almost imperceptible that sadly said, "I guess so." Then she half accepted my hug. "I love you," I said and went out the door.

In the stairwell I took in all the air I could hold, held it, then sighed it out of me, thinking, I am not going to cry.

I walked to my car, got in, pulled the seatbelt around me, chose music, and drove away. I was distracted enough I made one wrong turn, another, and then found my way to Main Street, out to 31, down 531 to 490, and back on the Thruway, east away from my girl.

It would have all been terrible, but the drive was lovely. Music played and I listened some, but mostly my mind drifted almost dangerously away from driving. I daydreamed like a child, sank into memory, told myself silent stories. Rather than think everything through, I drifted with feelings, the unfocused images and ideas carrying me further than the car ever could.

I thought, this could make a good piece of writing. I considered dictating to my phone, but no, it would wait. And so it has.

Nearly two hours later I exited the Thruway, traveled 690 East to Teall Ave., snuck down Lynch Avenue behind the concrete plant and abandoned green house succumbing to gravity, crossed Erie Boulevard to Westcott and home. I walked up the steps, unlocked the door, and called hello to the animals. The cats arrived first, then went off on their own. The dog yodeled and whinnied, her tail wagging her whole back end, her teeth bared in what we know as her horrible smile of ecstasy. It had been over four hours after all.

I miss my girl, but the drive cleared my mind and restored me. I'm ready to write. A blog post and then a note I'll seal in an envelope addressed to room in Brockport. The words come less like thoughts than like the lines on the road, the solid one down the side, the broken lines between the lanes, and the varied line of the horizon always ahead, ever out of reach, quietly pulling me forward toward tomorrow.

Without Numbers

Second day in a row, I went for a run without my watch. I have no idea if this will be a trend. I kept turning my left hand over to look at my wrist during the run. At the end of today's I almost pushed my right index finger to my left wrist but felt foolish enough to stop. Old habits. The watch keeps track of heart rate too and I've long run in a low heart-rate range. Going without the watch, I don't know what my heart rate was. I just ran by feel and felt good.

A guy this week ran a marathon in under two hours. First time that's been done, so far as we know. It's nice to know we have almost limitless potential. I just hope he didn't do better running through chemicals. That sort of thing happens when we get too caught up with numbers.

I'm listening to a record on the turntable. I don't know how many times I've played it and lack any way to tell mathematically, algorithmically which record, song, or artist I've heard most. Instead, I scan the spines and see what strikes my fancy. Right now it's Steely Dan's Greatest Hits and "Here At The Western World." How did that song not make it onto a regular album? I mean, really.

This month I've stayed off the scale. I know about what I weigh. No matter the number, I'm heavier than is healthy. The daily weigh in became, as it often does, a drag, so I stopped. Sitting here, I feel my belly over my belt. That's all the data I need at the moment.

This week I started a new writing notebook. It lacks page numbers and I haven't written any in. I begin notebooks wondering how long I'll take to finish them. Maybe there's a better way of thinking.

Our older daughter is home from college this weekend. I could count hours and minutes until I take her back (and we resume missing her daily presence), but I'll skip that.

Numbers are my habit and often my friend. Sometimes they get in the way and every relationship needs a break at least for a little while. I would tell you how long this break will last, but I've decided not to count.

Be A Dad

Your kid is hurt. Not badly or suddenly but hurt. It's her leg. She started running cross-country on a whim and probably ramped up too fast. Whatever the case, her left leg isn't right, the calf is tight even when she's just walking around school. She's in constant low-grade and occasional high-grade pain. Or, as she would say high-key pain. These things happen.

Your wife makes an appointment with an orthopedist. Your job is more flexible than hers, so you get to drive your girl to the appointment.

On the way, you say to her you're glad she's not a little kid, that it's good she's in high school. She shrugs. You explain: When you were tiny it was worse. You couldn't help yourself. You couldn't tell us what was wrong. This, you tell her, is still bad, but better. You know you're not explaining it right.

Okay, she says. She's nice that way. Knows when to throw the old man a bone.

You're her dad, so most of what you do is drive where she needs to go, try to be quiet and let her talk with the doctors, listen more than you talk, and head her off when she begins to spiral into anger or depression. You know about such spirals. Bet your ass you do. Trying to head her off helps head you off. Sometimes.

The orthopedist looks her over. Kick this leg up. Now that one. Stand up and walk across the exam room. Lie down and put your leg up. How's this feel? This? He figures out where things are at. He suggests an MRI.

She is nervous about that. He says, no sweat, but she says, isn't that the thing that makes you feel like the world is coming down. You smile. You know what she means. Claustrophobic, you say. The orthopedist says she won't go all the way in. Just her leg. He asks, is your leg claustrophobic? She smiles but only a little, like it's a dad joke. He smiles back. No sweat, he tells her.

And there's a job opening.

The job description: nod and make sure she believes him. Say, it's no problem. When she says it still high-key makes her nervous, nod again and say that you understand. Don't try to fix things. Just be there. Be a man. Be her dad.

You step up. You do the job. When she raises her eyebrows at you, that's when you know you've done what you were hired to do, what you were born to do, all you've ever wanted to do. And you both smile.

The Thing We Love & The Edge

Learning how to play guitar is the one thing I always look back on with wonderment. I'm reminded of "What ifs?" every time I pick up a guitar. Where would I be? I have sort of a survivor's guilt about it that makes me want it for everyone. Not the "guitar" exactly, but something like it for everybody. Something that would love them back the more they love it. Something that would remind them of how far they've come and provide clear evidence that the future is always unfolding toward some small treasure worth waiting for. At the very least, I wish everyone had a way to kill time without hurting anyone, including themselves. That's what I wish. That's what the guitar became for me that summer and is to me still.

—Jeff Tweedy, Let's Go (So We Can Get Back), 65-66

I really like Jeff Tweedy's book for many of the same reasons I liked Springsteen's and each of Austin Kleon's. All have in common that they give me hope and push me to do more. I didn't feel like writing when I started this (I wanted to curlin a ball or bolt from school) but I've made it my job to do this work. There's no pay yet but I've set myself to creating at least one thing every day. Creating is a vehicle, like a bicycle I'm pedaling down the road. If I stop pedaling I get too comfortable and forget pedaling. Eventually the bike slows and I come to a stop by keeling over.

Last night I watched high school kids play instruments and sing. Really though I only watched one kid (mine) and listened for her voice. She loves to sing, loves it completely. During her chorus's second song she and another student who can project from here to Guam rocked me back. I could hear her voice within that group, hear it stand out and then blend in. Tweedy might say that her signing voice loves her back more even than she loves it.

Most students were still on-book but music comes easy to my girl. Dance comes slowly and is always difficult, but music is right there, low hanging fruit. Still, she has to work at it. She sings in chorus, in the musical, at home, and with a voice teacher. There are things she can't stand about how things are run in the department (I sympathize and agree) but her only question about her voice is what can we do next together?

Leo Babauta talks about practicing on the edge. I like that. To get better, to grow, I have to push myself out on the edge. There are limits but most practice should be on the edge. I write Morning Pages and in my Writer's Notebook but most of my practice of late is here, in public.

When I ask students to share I know they feel it's like dancing naked on the cafeteria table. It's vulnerable. No matter how many times we agree we're judging the writing not the writer, there's no denying who is on the table and the state of their undress.

But getting up on that table, tastefully dressed of course, is a must.

My daughter is moving out on the edge more and more. There was a time she was good enough to go easy and still stand out. Times have changed. She has to work and do more interesting stuff, things that stretch her and require learning new skills including how to work the complicated politics of a high school music/drama department.

It's not like she and I will master the edge. It keeps receding. To paraphrase Father John Misty, there are horizons that just forever recede. I'm doing alright with the blogging and building an audience. I'll keep working on that, but I'm moving toward the next edge now, feeling my way one word at a time. Tweedy might suggest that the pen loves me back the more I love it. Yeah, that sounds right. Now I want to find out just how far we can go. I'll get out on that edge and not worry too much about getting cut.