Listen to this discussion free on YouTube: Awakening discussion
Mornings are me time. I wake up, cats swarm my feet, encouraging me to feed them. I begin the coffee brewing and often jump in my hot tub. A ritual has emerged. I take comfort in the spiritual awakening metaphor, lighting candles, burning nag champa, praying for illumination, and watching the sun come up. I hum in the 105-degree water, no jets, no noise. I listen to the silence.
This morning a single bird started up the band. I was aware of silence. The one birdsong, then three, on to hundreds. Morning. There is a pattern that emerges in the birds as well. First light. Wait for someone to sing. Join in.
Nature likes habits, rituals, singing. It’s how nature (birds and humans) has evolved. I have my own birdsong involving cats, coffee, and either my hot tub or the native Texas garden in my front yard.
Waking up.
My progress at fully coming alive has taken a detour. I’m in a low-wage job trying to survive before the money pressure forces me into reconfigurations that I don’t want. I have a modest house. Hey, I have a house. I am nesting. My son is here like a mockingbird, poking his sharp beak into every crevice of my house. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but he’s taking the full measure of his dad’s house. He’s got issues. Curiosity. I think he delights in the drama he creates by staying up all night, disturbing the sleep of myself and Sid and Hunter. He doesn’t care.
This morning’s awakening was soft and an hour early. It’s still pitch black outside. No bird song. I fed the vocal cats and hit the tub. Silence. The birds were still sleeping. My son’s car was gone. He’s out. He’s roaming the dark city to find purpose, thrills, and get into trouble. Is he dealing MDMA this time? It came up in a conversation between us over breakfast at Jim’s a week ago.
“I can give you two points.”
“What?”
“Two hits. It is good, pure stuff.”
“No-thank-you.”
So, is that what’s fueling his journey into the quiet darkness while most of the humans and birds sleep? Is he at his 24-hour coffee hangout? Did he find one of his ex-girlfriends open tonight? I’ll leave my imaginings there. Wondering about his whereabouts is not a fulfilling pastime. Not helpful. Doesn’t have any effect on the behavior. Doesn’t do me any favors either. He’s 24, soon to be 25. A few days ago I asked, “What are you going to do about health insurance?” An issue driving a good bit of my life at the moment.
“What?”
“Don’t you get kicked off your parent’s healthcare at 25?”
“26.”
“Oh.”
Let me Google that… He is correct. The concept of course would’ve been drilled into him by his mom and her husband. He is on their policy. Still, it is the pressure of adulthood that should serve as a fulcrom to get him over his careless behavior. If he had to work in the morning, as I do, he would not be galivanting about, he would be asleep. Or pay the consequences.
It was 5 am this morning when my brain began to percolate with new ideas. The cats were enthusiastic about breakfast. I fed them, started my coffee (I’ve added bean grinding and a regular coffee maker to my routine. A complication, giving more intentionality to the making of the life-giving elixir. The hot tub. No birds. When I came back inside, I noticed through the front windows that his car was gone.
I am not his keeper. I am a temporary refuge. He is already beginning to wear out his welcome. It was a victory yesterday when he was asleep in his bed during my wakeup ritual. He was actually sleeping in the music room. I assumed this morning to be another victory in the self-regulation modifications. See, I’m already too involved in managing this troubled young man. I need to get out of that business.
And, pause. Continue to give him more monofilament line as he runs deep back toward his angry past. The thin connection is slack at the moment. I have more line to give. The jarring snag of the hook is coming. Not today. Not tonight. It is in my best interest to pay attention to my life, my worry and fear building up over the intrusion and disrespect of my house guest.
I wonder and compare to my time, twice, moving in with my mom. Nothing bad happened. It was humiliating. We were safe and cared for. She got to mother, or grandmother, a bit more. The first time, my kids were also with us. We pretty much invaded all the spare space in my mom’s house. She was delighted. She was ornery. She was not happy with my son’s late-night ranting and yelling at his TF2 buddies, playing an online 4v4 shooter. We managed.
I got the kids up each morning around 6:30. Began breakfast and hustled them into clothes, into belly fulls, and into the car for the traffic challenged drive across town, back into their neighborhood. Often, we would ‘need to swing by mom’s to get my science book’ on the way. We made it work. It was not easy. We were all in the boat together.
On a special moment over that summer, the kids came into my room, my mom’s converted garage, around midnight.
“We’re hungry.”
I got up and we went to our favorite 24-hour diner and had a great time. I didn’t have to work the next morning, so we whooped it up. It was a moment. I was often up for any adventure. Just like when I was able to provide a house and a trampoline a few years later.
“Get up and jump!” They could invoke the “jump” promise. I had to get up and bounce with them until we all collapsed on the warm black mesh of the trampoline. Their mom would never let me get one while we were married. Mine was a hit.
As my ex-wife filed her complaint with the Attorney General’s office for child support (I was one week behind, and giving her all the information I had about my employer issues.) she bought a trampoline at her house with her new husband and new last name. I think she changed it as quickly as she could, so she could distance herself from my expository journaling on the blog.
The kids never took to the trampoline in their mom’s backyard. There was no “get up and jump” clause. Neither their mom or her husband ever bounced. Well, as far as I know. As my ex-wife’s malicious action forced me to sell my recovery house and I moved to my mom’s, I noticed their trampoline in the backyard was decaying from neglect. We didn’t talk much about it, or the husband, or mom. I had a boundary. I wouldn’t ask them about their mom. I needed to focus on my own life, my own rebuilding, and not compare myself to their mom.
My kids and I loved the gnome house. It wasn’t ideal, but it provided a safe place for them to land every other weekend. It’s obvious my ex-wife could care less. It wasn’t important to her that the father also had a safe place to life and to be capable of housing the kids during “my time.” She gave not one fuck about me.
Maybe the trigger, finally, was when my son asked her to wake them on school days more like I did. “We asked her to get us up earlier, so we’re not always rushing. To give us time to dress, eat, and get to school without so much yelling.”
She was not very empathetic. She didn’t like mornings. When we were still married, she would often sleep in while I got the kids ready and delivered them to school. It was my joy. I was the breakfast king.
I lost my kingdom to a bitter and vengeful woman. She was not struggling to pay her mortgage. She was not defaulting on credit card payments. She wanted her pound of flesh. She wanted to wipe the smile off my face. I was just beginning to recover my happiness and optimism. The kids enjoyed our time together. I guess that made her even more unhappy. She was not a happy person.
I thought in our marriage that I could make her happy. Sort of like my dad. I thought I could do enough and be bright enough for him to quit drinking. I got As. I scored touchdowns as a Pee Wee football player. I started a magician business and did kid’s birthday parties for $20 a show. Nothing worked. Prayer didn’t work. My joy and enthusiasm had an effect, but was not fixing their marriage. Nothing could stop my father from drinking. That would happen ten years later when the cancer treatments caused alcohol to become a poison.
My dad sobered up. By force. In the freefall of the loss of him, I gathered all the father-son moments I could. I visited him often. During my last two years of high school I ran up the two-mile hill to his mansion. We would have dinner once a week. If I were tired, he would drive me home. Mostly, however, I walked home. They kept their drinking moderate until I left about 8 pm.
I was doing a Sysifusian routine to rejoin my dad and his abounding love. He was not to be found in the mansion with the green-eyed alcoholic wife. He was not to be found.
At a turning point in all our lives, my sisters both moved back to Austin to be near my father as he fought against the brain cancer. The wife was often off on trips to Nola with Rod, her sidecar. One night when my sisters visited, they found my father in the backyard in the rain. He was clinging to a tree, barely conscious. For a week or so he had lost the ability to speak from the swelling in his brain. That’s what we were told. My sisters helped him back in the house, cleaned him up, and put him in bed. SAM, his wife was unreachable.
I desparately wanted a relationship with my dad. In some ways, I hope my son will arrive at the same idea. He’s not there. He’s also, not here.
I fully comprehend that I cannot tell my son what to do. My advice is not welcome, and often ends up with him doing the opposite of what is suggested. So, today, I don’t suggest. I keep my own boundaries. I am cordoning his bullshit into limited rooms of the house. And I am taking care of my own health and well-being. That is life: we can only take care of ourselves. Only depend on ourselves. Everyone else is on their own agenda.
My son, tonight, was doing exactly what he wanted to do. I may not see him before I am required at my job this morning. I have let him go mentally so many times, I’m trying not to give up on him. Release him. Support him. Do not allow his behavior to crash my spaceship.
