Universal Daughter

The bed is too small for all three of us now.
Mum sits on the floor while I read.
You love your stories, "Daddy!  Not like that!"
Except when I try a little voice acting.

The bed is warm but the wall chills my spine.
Mum's toasty in front of the heater.
You look at me, nose inches from mine.
Except for misty eyes no one would know:

I gaze upon a universe of potential and it fills me utterly.

Joy is too small a word.

Silly

My daughter likes to smile, squint one eye in an attempt at a wink, hold out a big thumbs up and roll her stomach muscles.  Seriously.  Picture a four year old girl with pig tails, a dimple and this expression:

Subtract the pointing and add some seriously flexible stomach contortions.

She taught herself the tummy roll after watching Sesame Street where apparently some guest did it, the rest is a bit of a mystery.  She always asks "Why are you laughing Daddy?"  Which of course makes me laugh more.  How the hell can I answer that question?

I've made an effort to always be as complete and honest with her as I can when she asks me questions.  She has a basic understanding of sex for instance.  Not the act, but only because it hasn't come up yet.  It might never, we do live on a farm after all.  But she does know that she grew in Mummy's tummy and that she started out as an egg from Mummy combined with a seed from Daddy.  She also knows when our rooster is doing that to a hen he's trying to give his seed to her.  I guess we will have to have a sex talk at some point, just to make sure that she understands that human sex isn't usually that quick, violent or one sided.  :)

When she asks what things are called I also strive to use the real word even if it's polysyllabic.  You'd be surprised at how fast she picks up even the most complex words.  A four year old's brain has huge portions of it dedicated to language acquisition, might as well take advantage of that while it lasts.

But I am at a loss to explain to her why I find that particular performance so hilarious.  I mean it just IS.  Sometimes the only honest answer is "I don't know."  Of course, it's tricky getting that out when you're snorting soy milk out your nose.

Movin' On

One stereotype of ageing is the inevitable descent into curmudgeonhood.  "Hey you kids, get offa my lawn!"  "My yard, my ball!"  For years I looked forward to this state.  I loved the idea of dropping my filters and just letting fly whenever something irritated me.  It seemed like it would take less energy than suppressing the annoyance that's inevitably generated by social interactions.  What I didn't count on is that I'm getting less and less fussed by things as I get older.

I mean, it makes sense right?  The older you get the more practice you get in dealing with the common annoyances.  When I was younger I felt that the petty shit would eventually wear me down.  It never occurred to me that I would instead get better and better at dealing with these things.

Part of it comes from being able to see that in daily life most people don't do things "to" me they do things "at" me.  The only concretely objective action that one could do "to" me would involve physical force done against my will.  A punch, slap or tickle for instance.  I'm in the fortunate situation where words can only be done "at" me.  But not everybody is in my privileged situation of course.

It's pure victim blaming to say that words can never hurt one.  Of course they can, and it's almost impossible to keep from reacting negatively to some words.  People who've been badly hurt often have triggers that crash them right back into a harmful emotional state.  A phrase or a tone of voice that's intimately associated with painful past experiences is often such a trigger.  For myself, the sound of cutlery or china being bashed immediately tenses me up.   It makes me feel like the person doing it is mad at me regardless of whether or not they actually are.  I don't think I have any trigger words though, and such words could be considered a "to" rather than an "at".

One of the big privileges of ageing is that things that are done "at" one get easier and easier to deal with.  Insults hold no weight when you've heard them many times before.  Provided of course you've also thought honestly about whether or not there's any truth to them.  The moods of others are less affecting too, it's so much easier to see when someone's anger or sadness has nothing at all to do with you.

My future fantasy with those inaccurate ball throwing kids has changed dramatically.  I don't think anymore that I'm likely to end up cornering the neighbourhood market in sporting projectiles.  My hope is that while I'm throwing it back I can think of something to say that'll make 'em laugh, or groan.  After all, the bad pun is the province of dads everywhere and dammit, I'm not one to drop that particular ball.

Life

You know, I miss writing here.  Of course, when I started it was the dark ages: pre-marriage, pre-child, pre-business.  You'd think all those things would give me lots to talk about, and you'd be right.  But they also take away the time that I once had.  Ah well, life's like that.

Life is also like this: My mother is in the hospital with pneumonia and a mysterious anemia.  At her age this sort of thing is quite serious, possibly end-of-life serious.  I'm stuck on the other side of the world without the resources to just up and go.  I'm not happy about this situation, but I accept it.  I chose this life and therefor I accept the downsides that come with it.  If she gets much worse or the doctors find something seriously wrong I'll find a way to get on a plane, but until then I have to rely on calling daily.  It will do.  I'm grateful that I don't live in an age where the first I heard about this would be a letter that was a month out of date.

I'm grateful too that she's in a place where the best possible care is available.  If the worst happens and she dies I'll know that that there wasn't anything I could have done to help prevent that.  I have no medical training.  My only task in this is to provide what comfort I can.  And while it would be better if I could be there in person I can in fact provide some small comfort by calling every day.

This might sound like I'm making excuses, and perhaps I am.  But I strive to acknowledge and live with reality: the things that are objectively provable in our world.  By doing so I find that while there can still be sadness, regrets even, there is little to no guilt.  Should my Mum die before I manage to see her again I would regret that.   I would be sad and I would mourn but I wouldn't feel guilty.  The reality is that I can't get there at this time.  The reality is that I cannot prevent her death by any action of my own.   The reality is that I've said everything I need to say to her, and I've tried to give her the opportunity to say everything she needs to say to me.

I love my mother and she knows it. I forgive her any and all trespasses committed by her, real or perceived, and she know it.  I am a healthy, good,  successful individual who enjoys his life and she is responsible for that, despite the difficulties that my father's problems presented in raising me and my brother.  She knows that I feel that way, though I'm not sure she believes it.

Death happens and despite that life goes on. When you don't believe that there's anything after death you have to do everything you can before that inevitable event, there are no second chances.  Once you've got all the things that you'd regret not doing or saying before the end out of the way you're left with a freedom to be the best comfort you can be.  It's a peaceful place to be, sad yes, but peaceful none the less.

Of course my mother's a tough old bird.  She'll probably pull through and come here to read this and shake her head at her atheist son.  And that'll be perfectly okay by me. :)

The End

I just realized that I never followed up on the post about my friend. He died. That was given considering the state of his cancer, but what wasn't a given was the manner of his death. He spent the extra time he got after they fixed his cut carotid to reach out. It was amazing to watch, even through the tiny window of his Facebook wall. The real reconciliation, forgiveness even I hope, happened beyond public sight but the initial contacts often happened where we could all see it. He didn't die alone and he from the posts of those who were there with him at the end it seems he found some measure of peace.

But I will point out one thing that annoyed me. My friend was an atheist just as I am, he went as far as to described himself as a militant atheist. As his condition worsened and he could no longer respond directly more and more people put blatantly religious messages on his wall. I'm not talking about things like "We're praying for you." sentiments that are fully understandable and well meant. No, there were a bunch of posts that started with things like "Dear being of peace and light..." one of which was written by some kind of spiritual leader of one of his friends. That's going too far, way too far. If my friend had been healthy he would have expressed his displeasure at those sentiments in a way that would have been brutal, profane and very, very funny.

This is the oblivion of religious privilege, the inability to understand that while sincere best wishes are usually welcome by atheists even when religiously couched, proselytising is inappropriate. The deathbed conversion is a myth that religious folks repeat because facing death without a belief in an afterlife of some sort is incomprehensible to them.

I didn't take any of these folks to task for two reasons. First because I recognise that everyone grieves in their own way and despite the inappropriate nature of those posts no harm was intended. Second and most importantly, I couldn't speak for my friend in this matter. There is no atheist big book of multiple choice for me to consult. No dogma, no tradition, no religious formula to inform me. It would have been as inappropriate for me to speak for my friend without knowing his exact thoughts on the matter as it was for people to use his affliction to spread their dogma. Sometimes free thought is limiting and I wouldn't have it any other way.

As final thought I want to point out just how important Facebook was in all of this. He died at least in part in the pubic space of Facebook. A temporary community formed, and together we were stronger than we could have been alone. This is the true strength of humanity, our ability to reach out and help each other. Facebook gets a lot of criticism for its triviality, and perhaps that criticism is deserved. But in the end it's simply a means of communication and what is communicated is up to those who use it.

Complicated

I just watched the Dr. Who episode "When a Good Man Goes to War". There's something about that phrase that moves me.

A good man, I like to think of myself as such. To be good is something I aspire to in all of my life. I work alone and I own the business, there's no oversight bar my wife who isn't there most days. I could easily tell folks that their bike requires repairs that they don't in fact need. I could even supply used parts from previous repairs to back up such claims. There is little chance I could get caught. I won't ever do that. I don't fear being caught, I don't fear punishment. I fear not being a good man. I fear it because the only thing that has stopped evil in all of history is the willingness of folks to be good.

I've never been in a war. I will never be in a war, not at my age, not as a combatant anyway. But I have been in mortal danger a time or two. I once worked a job where on multiple occasions I was robbed at knife point. The last time it happened I hit the guy and chased him out of the store. It was a dumb thing to do, I was very lucky I didn't get hurt, didn't get killed. I didn't do it because I was good, or because I wanted to do good. I did it because I suddenly realised he couldn't reach me. In that instant my fear turned to anger and I acted.

I make no claims that my experience is equivalent to going to war. But it was a taste of fear and danger that goes beyond the bounds of most daily life in the privileged western world in which I live. That act, hitting someone, lashing out, even though it was justified, it changed me. I knew then that I was capable of unthinking violence. I'd been in fights before as a teenager and during all of them all I wanted was for it to stop. No wonder I never won any of them. This was different.

When a good man goes to war, if he is indeed a good man, then he must believe that that war is justified. Even if that belief is correct that man can not help but to be changed. This is why we must go to war only with the greatest of reluctance and in full knowledge of the consequences. This too is why it is so important to be good, to strive to be good, because the veneer of civilization is so thin. We all have the capacity for all the possible actions people are capable of. To be anything less is to be less than human.

When a good man goes to war. That phrase touches me. So sad, so complicated, so human.