a most imperfect paradise

I want. I wish. Not “I need”—that’s justifiable.

Desire puts it all on the line, makes the moment, opens the door for another to walk in… or walk away.

I regret the words the moment they jump from my mouth, escape onto the page. I want them back in my head where they cannot jinx me, or hurt me, or subject me to the criticisms or objections that I do not want to face. Safe.

But no.. I would say them again.

The thoughts in our heads die without expression. Maybe some of them should do just that. But others… oh, others are life itself. And yes, I do want…

Sun shines, moments reflected in a pond and shimmering. More peaceful than silence, the birds and breeze sing in some forgotten paradise, far from the madness of the everyday, but still right around the corner.

Night comes, and the city enchants, throwing lights, lamplights, stars, glistening high into the air somewhere near a sliver of moon suspended between buildings.

I don’t often feel such confusion, wondering what nights like this are supposed to mean, if they are more than simply splendid nights. An opening door, warm air from a kitchen, bread, cheese, interrupts the cool air, and then to wander into something wonderful, something I am afraid I could come to depend on… We walk, then later, an accordion, voices, the froth on top. A kiss. Can wonderful be ordinary? I try to find a context for words, for hair brushed behind my ear, for feelings that seems so distinct from the life I lead on Monday. I stop myself before my reality becomes too distorted.

Tomorrow, at my desk, I will think of other things, like the correct answer to polite questions, and what time I need to leave for a meeting. “How was your weekend?” Does anyone expect the truth, if truth seems outside of the mundane, and yet not cause for official celebration? Can we believe that time away can be magic, or that life still holds its wonder even now, beyond a paycheck, a house to clean, appointments, errands? Maybe bliss should not be only time off. Maybe I should yield to that warmth. Maybe there is a new context I never even considered, one where joy is not held separate and only available on weekends. Can I weave that joy into the everyday and still make sense of it? Will it disappear, or fade, or will it infuse the days with softness?

Or is this all an illusion, just the dance of two lonely souls?

“That night we moved closer to the border, and clear across the prairie, at the very edge of the horizon. We could make out the gas fires of the refinery at Missoula, while to the south we could see the lights of Cheyenne, a city bigger and grander than I’d ever seen.

I felt all kind of things looking at the lights of Cheyenne, but most important, I made up my mind to never again tag around with a hell-bent type, no matter how in love with him I was” (Sissy Spacek as Holly, in the movie Badlands, 1973).

I recently had a moment of fond reminiscence of dangerous days, the thrill and passion of grasping tight while the wind and the world hit me head-on. Then I woke up.

There are all sorts of reasons that taking off in pursuit of adventure may seem like a fine thing to do, but in the end, most of them seem to involve running away from, rather than to something. The vague idea of adventure was a dream I inherited, a place I guarded in the back of my mind as an option whenever I was faced with too much unhappiness in too short a time.

Until I was in my late 20s, I never did much more than ponder that option. A few times, I felt myself drawn to the flame, flittering perilously close to entanglements that would break my heart, and did—but not irretrievably so. I jumped a few times, but felt that elastic pull back, bungeeing me back into a predictable existence to idle on the lookout for my own truth.

I wonder sometimes if it is a part of growing up, or if it is a part of growing up unhappy that leads a person find truth in sublimation. Sometimes I find that truth in words, my own words, a world on a page, or in a heartbeat, a smile, a carefully placed step and a song, a moment of pure grace. This is a sort of joy.

Try as I might, though, I never found joy on the back of a motorcycle, holding on tight while someone else drove through the unknown vistas and back roads. I did venture once, untethered at last, straddled the back seat of an adventure and never went home again. But where I ended up after that, I expected to stay.

I guess I should have known this was not a ride meant for settling, for bonding, or for discovering ourselves. The never-ending voyages tugged, threatening roots that grew ever deeper. “Why leave? Why not stay and see the flowers, the fruits, this life we created?” I wondered. Garden with me.

“Come alongside me,” he said, and I followed, while I still could. The urge to flee returned tirelessly, a malignant tumor, seeking still more—but what?—some indefinable thing that could ravage me in the process. One day, farther from joy that I ever imagined, I stayed behind; he left. But he could come home, to walk among it, to reclaim this life, this beautiful, imperfect life that had grown, with the weeds and thorns to disparage. He could come home, if only to pick the best fruits from among them, to look at love and believe it would always wait.

I wonder, what hidden parts of ourselves only find expression in actions that seem to defy what life passes to us, even what we choose? I wonder what makes us feel more alive when we speed through space, feeling the vibrations through our skin, into our minds, testing the very limits of our physical life, and abandoning in those sublime moments all that has meaning here on Earth.

And then… what makes us feel justified to return, perhaps unscathed, perhaps damaged irreparably, always hoping to be cared for and loved by the ones we left behind…. or at least, not forgotten?

I wonder what the seeker seeks, if he even knows, or is it the search that he lives for, the never-ending journey? What comfort does the road bring? Perhaps it is the moving skylines, the exchangeable faces, the well-polished security of the new and unblemished. Perhaps the road brings an illusion of perfection, and the safety of never truly being known.

This morning, I picked up a pan from the oven with a wet oven mitt. That sensation took me back, back to my childhood in the wilds of Webster Groves.

When I was nine, my mom gave in to my begging and let me go for a ride. My half brother only came over when he felt like it by then—no longer every weekend. It was 1974, and as the generation seemed to dictate, he delighted in infuriating my dad with his choice of dress, friends, and things he put into his body. This time my half brother was wearing a fringed leather vest and headband, long hair, but brought no friends or pipes: only an extra helmet. I can hardly remember the motorcycle he had at the time, but we were adventurous as a family with our choice of things to drive, so my thought was that it was faster than our go-kart, and street legal—unlike the minibike he had before. I got on.

We went around the circle that was my street, and I wanted more, so we headed down the hill, down Edgar Road, and down Glendale. Wheeeeeee! It was so great, so free, so … oh my God… what happened?!!!

Lesson learned: Do not wear shorts on motorcycles. And if you do, do not rest your bare ankle on the exhaust pipe.

When the blisters healed, that scar was infinitely cooler than any tattoo could ever be: not-too-obvious proof of my reckless side. I may have seemed the goodie two-shoes, but was attracted to danger and dreams, and seeking the sublime in whatever form it presented itself–but not motorcycles now.

I cannot say it is always healthy to seek this kind of adventure. It certainly can cause discord in an otherwise upstanding life.

But hell it sure can be fun.

(Above is Richard Thompson, singing “1952 Vincent Black Lightning,” a fitting song for my moods today. Wouldn’t you like to have him come play songs in your living room?)

Pistachio ice cream is my favorite. The kind I like may not be the finest, but it is the greenest, has the most almond extract flavoring—way too much, but kind of addictive—and is filled with salty pistachios. Friendly’s pulls off this combination rather well, especially considering that the brand has been on sale for the past couple of weeks.

Remember when you were a kid, and you reached down in the cereal box, all the way to the bottom, to find the prize. My brother and I used to pour ENORMOUS bowls of cereal, professing outrageous hunger. We had a yellow Pyrex bowl that came in a set with smaller ones, red, green, and turquoise. The turquoise was the egg-mixing bowl, and the other two broke before I remember. The yellow one was used only for popcorn and potato salad. We poured the cereal into that bowl. Once when we tried that trick, my mom made us eat what we had poured. From then on, we waited more patiently for our prizes.

Usually it was all for something worthless, too, not unlike a Happy Meal toy. Once in a while, though, a Matchbox car could make it all worthwhile.

Jump forward a few years, and the prize is pistachios. Tonight I am not content to have a regular bowl of ice cream, but am hunting through the box, ignoring ice cream just to get at them.

Of course, picking all the good stuff out is not very adult of me. I do know that when I do that, the rest is more or less spoiled—or, at least, not as special without the most desired contents still inside.

But sometimes, greed gets the better of me, going after the good stuff all at once, leaving the rest to face later. And yes, it is worth it.

Just don’t tell my kids.

I won something!

After the woman read my number, she directed me to an assortment of beautiful glass, blown by the woman’s son. It was all exquisite: pendants and several small vases. But one caught my eye. It has been sitting on the shelf above my writing desk ever since. I look at it often, the way it catches the light.

I wanted to show you, and tried several more normal photos, like this:

and this:

This is a vase.

I do not have flowers in my prize, but find myself more gazing at it, letting my mind wander. Words come more easily to me than images. I pick up my small treasure, and gaze down inside, the smoke and haze and sweetness seducing me into my favorite color.

That’s better. Yes, just like that…

“Heavenly shades of night are falling,” indeed.

I am shivering, holding onto a cup of hot tea on my back step, spoiled after the summer like conditions that woke up the trees this week.

It is quiet here, a different house without movement or voices, but nice for one evening.

Just before I took this picture, the neighborhood was cast in dramatic shadows, as the sun peeked out from behind clouds that have now disappeared. The sun has gone now, too, and this light is all that remains of the day. The leaves of the Japanese maple opened just a little today, promising more.

More. More spring, more warmth, more quiet, more voices, more love, more “rendezvous beneath the blue,” more you, whoever you are, wherever you are, more.

Right now I am standing in my kitchen, watching as thousands of tiny black ants swarm into the crowded coliseum, here to fête the latest craze that has hit the ant kingdom. It’s not Antmania! it’s not Beatlemania! it’s Terro!

Well, it’s not exactly a coliseum: it’s my kitchen, specifically, one corner of it. And as for the ant fever… the ants think the stuff is great right now, and judging from the numbers, they cannot get enough of it. But they are about to get a big surprise when they stagger back home, drunk on that sweet, sweet nectar. They imbibe, run through it, and carry some to their little ant colony on their little ant feet.

Then, they will die, poisoning the friends and family back home right along with them.

In my experience, Terro is a product that delivers the promised results—and has the skull and crossbones on the box to prove it. The kiddos are gone for a few days, and we no longer have cats. As long as I stay away from that tiny corner of the kitchen, I should avoid poisoning myself, and my ant problem will be a memory by the time I get home from my walk.

That’s a little wishful thinking, to be fair, but tomorrow would do.

“She’s so cruel,” you say, thinking of those poor ants clutching their little ant necks as they choke, collapsing at last, only to mutter their last words, in ant-speak, “Why?”

I am cruel; it is true. I am engineering the destruction of thousands of insects as I write, and I am just a wee bit gleeful about the whole affair. There is something of the “them” versus “us” in this enterprise, and I am not at all sure it is healthy in the least. It is certainly not healthy for the ants.

Some bugs seem to live beyond my capacity for this sort of killing, based on some (mis?)conception of value. Spiders are spared, mostly. Bees only die as a last resort, and I cannot even remember the last time. I don’t like to kill any bugs outside, either. It just doesn’t seem right. Well, except mosquitoes. Oh, and I’d never kill a ladybug, or a cricket. Too superstitious.

But there are bugs that put up a bigger fight, bring their entire families, invade: earwigs, roaches! (oh my), FLEAS (even worse), and yes, ants. Burglars. How dare they go after that cracker I dropped on the floor? They point out my housecleaning deficiencies. And this, I believe, is why they are here now.

A week ago, a friend called, and in the midst of our conversation, I heard screaming. It was an insect-related problem, and the insect in question was none other than an ant. Or—many ants. I said to myself, “Hmmm. So early, too,” because I had not seen any here, and knew that it would have to be July if I did. “Hmmm. Such a shame,” my thoughts continued, and as my friend went on, talking half to me and half to a distressed teenager about how the ants would not have come if the food had not been left out, I found myself tsk-tsking the entire situation, so glad that it was at their house, and not ours.

And now, just look at me. I am here poisoning ants. This is where that sort of thinking gets you. I should have known: no one ever accused me or any of my children of being too neat. That is all I can say on the matter at this point.

You may ask me if I feel the least bit guilty for this formicide.

The truth is, I do, or I probably would not be here writing this little piece, trying to make the whole thing seem slightly amusing. I really do not like hurting things, even if they are ants covering my countertops in astonishing proportions. Ants do have a useful purpose—for heaven sakes: they make peonies open! Probably a few other things, too. I somehow feel I’m upsetting the universe.

I suppose to the ants I am incomprehensible to them, this destruction to their colony a tragic moment on some level I have no way of understanding, either. But really, the ants should have known something bad would happen for their greed. It kind of makes me wonder.

Spring. Yes, it is here, really here, in full bloom, literally, making me wonder if. If ever.

It is supposed to be just talking, just talking, and then, it is not. We are no longer talking, the room is warm, warmer than before, too warm—and yet, just right—and I know he is going to, think he is going to, want him to, am not sure (can anyone ever be really sure?) that I would want this to stop.

And yes, it would be wondrid and splenderful, and would it be too much like a teenager to say I would never wash again? Yes, of course it would, but it never hurts to think it.

It must be spring.

It was early enough for Target not to be too busy, I found a good parking spot (well, the handicapped placard does help), and all five of us were in a great mood. We were buying some promised new toys for the yard, charcoal, marshmallows, and a few other necessities for the first really warm weekend, the beginning to April vacation.

My son was walking as we entered the store, but we had brought the stroller, just in case, as I always do now in any place that is big and has fluorescent lighting. He strutted in, looked around, then looked back at me and climbed in the chair. We went on our way.

It really was a good day, with everyone in a fantastic frame of mind. Then, something happened. It was not a mean thing, or even a thoughtlessly cruel thing. It even surprises me that I am still thinking about it. Still…

We were in the outdoor toy section when a man (maybe around my age) and his son (probably around five years old) came down the aisle. I saw the boy look at my eleven-year-old son in the stroller, just about to ask the inevitable question, and his dad took his hand and guided him quickly away from us.

Later, looking for marshmallows, we saw them again. By then, my son was bouncing in the chair, laughing, as he often does when he is either excited or overstimulated (and big box stores nearly always do it). He was all right, though, but I could see the boy’s concern. The boy tugged on his dad’s jacket. His dad kept shooshing him, as he quickly navigated his son and himself out of our path.

I noticed, as we made our way to the cash registers, that the dad was staring back at us from a farther line.

Was it that bad?

Well, I sometimes wonder. It was still a glorious day, the type you know was good when night finally comes, and the kids are whispering in the dark, then are suddenly quiet because they are too tired to stay awake longer; when you, adult, fall into bed at night all sore and smiling and snuggling into a bathrobe, warm and exhausted, too, after the kids have fallen asleep; when the laundry basket is full of clothes that are absolutely, positively, filthy and smoky, and covered in grass stains. We had that kind of a day. We went home from Target, turned the music up, laughed, blew bubbles in the yard and played giant Frisbee games. Actually, it was my older son who was having the tougher day, trying to figure out where he could find enough wheels, wood, and a motor to build a go-kart—and frustrated when I was less than encouraging about that particular plan. It was a fine day, a good day, a typical day for nearly all the families around us. And still, that father’s stare stuck with me.

I wonder, sometimes, does it really seem that bad, this life? When other people see an eleven-year-old boy retreating to a stroller (didn’t know they made them his size?) to make it through a store, but unable to tell anyone about it because he can’t talk… when they see the meltdowns, or actually hear of the difficulties, does it really seem that bad? Do the non-staring people feel that way, too?

Sometimes, it’s been the opposite that has stuck with me: the overly helpful people, the ones who are trying, who still don’t know what to do. But they do try; they don’t run away. There are the complete opposite, the ones who look for that moment for their own advantage—a Kodak moment, a charitable act, a momentary kindness that makes a statement but is not so kind—those who seek the shunned, emphasize the difference in some hope of making themselves seem better. I don’t mean people who really help, who really care—only those who think that they seem like good people if they pretend to. That is perhaps the worst.

I realize the difficulties in knowing how to act around a kid with disabilities, much like moving to a new country. What are the customs? What did they say, and did that gesture mean something? Are these people nice? It’s a learning experience, emotional, not always quite right. It’s not within the comfort zone, and yet, it does not have the same thrills of living life that is conventionally adventurous… at least, at first.

I have told the tales of trying to meet these kids’ needs, of being frustrated through various agencies’ incapacities to do the right things, or to be funded enough to do them. I have told of the heartbreaks when tough decisions have to be made, when things fall apart. But somewhere in there, I hope I have conveyed the many joys. If I have failed to express those enough, maybe I should try harder. I fear I have frightened too many people.

Challenging, yes, it is. But isn’t life that way for us all? Not unhappy, not bad, though! The joy of yesterday—that simple day—warms my heart, thrills me. It is difficult to explain why. When things are so wonderful, do we ever think to wonder why?

We were happy, and I suppose that is why the father’s stare stuck with me. The stare, I believe, was one of confusion, one of fear, one of pity. I have indeed seen the look before, even heard the words that tend to go with it. And yet, I rarely have the right response to it, or even know how to deliver that response if I have it.

I sometimes wish for a more forgiving world, for one that didn’t mind difference, for a world where the richness of life accepts the difficult parts, where we can acknowledge that the best things are never simple, and where the fear of facing my family did not prevent people from wanting to get to know any one of us individually.

My family really is like any other. It’s just not so obvious.