Recently I heard the author/artist SARK talk about how it's a good idea to acknowledge the weaker parts of ourselves, and maybe even (gasp!) let them show more often than we do. She said she had gone so far as to take the part of her that felt hopeless out for a walk. "We didn't make it very far," she said, "because she was very tired. So we sat down in a field of flowers."
I wanted to take SARK's advice, but instead of taking the part of myself that feels hopeless for a walk, I think I'd like to take her to the airport, and put her ass on a plane that's taking off for someplace where they need that kind of thing. Like Disneyland, or maybe the Church of Scientology headquarters. They definitely have too much hope over there.
Not that I have anything against hopelessness, but I think we've already spent plenty of time together. I'd like to drive her down Pena Boulevard, laugh together about the gigantic, blue, satanic horse, and take the "departures" exit. "Well, take it easy," I'd like to say, popping the trunk. "Thanks for coming, but you're needed over at Apple, then I'm sending you to Canada for a while." They could use a little despair just to even things out a little, balance stuff up out there in the great white north. (Take off! It's a beauty way to go...)
I like to imagine that, while we hug, my hopelessness asks me, "Whatever will you do while I'm gone?"
"I guess the same thing I did while we were together all the time. Whatever I want."
I will want to worry about her when she starts a tour of the California state university system, but then she'll send me a postcard of herself standing in front of the Sigma Chi house at Berkeley, and I'll know I've done the right thing.
Showing posts with label existential crisis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label existential crisis. Show all posts
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Like Pulling Teeth
Last weekend, Sophie lost her second tooth. I pulled it for her, after she had worked on it for maybe a few hours, tops. She jiggled and wiggled it through half of Where the Wild Things Are.
"This movie is boring," she said. "Will you pull my tooth out for me?"
"Of course," I said, "I'd be happy to."
I grabbed a paper towel and a cup of salt water, and a few seconds later, I held what looked like a tiny kernel of corn between my thumb and forefinger. "What are you going to do with it?" I asked.
Sophie put her hands on her hips, cocked her head and said, "What do you think?"
The outsider wouldn't know it, but this is big progress for everyone. Sophie's first loose tooth was the source of some complicated feelings. Afraid of how much it would hurt to pull it all the way out, she left it dangling for so long that it started to turn black. "What if I don't want to grow up?" she asked me.
Afraid to pain anyone further that night, I delegated the dirty work to Alex, who took a paper towel, and after much cajoling, put it over her tiny incisor. He gave it a tug upward and outward. One giant leap for maturity. "Go look in the mirror!" we said. Knowing that children in these situations take their cues about how to feel from the adults around them, we tried our best to look deliriously happy. I felt like fainting.
Sophie ran, crying all the way, to the bathroom, holding her tooth in the paper towel. She bared her bleeding gums, and exhibited every human emotion there is all at the same time. She was, to use the modern parlance that refers to the physical manifestation of psychic multitasking, "a hot mess." She smiled and laughed and looked like she had just won the Olympics. "Oh my God," she said, glowing with pride.
"Congratulations," I said. We hugged in the bathroom, she bled on my shirt. "You did it," I said, wiping her lip. My girl.
Hours of deep conversation followed after that. What did it all mean? Why does everything always have to change? Why does it have to hurt? Why is it so scary? And should she surrender her tooth to the Tooth Fairy, or hold on to it? "I'd like to think about it for a while," she decided just before bed, and said she planned to seek the counsel of her peers at camp the next day. I imagined her holding something between a Quaker consensus meeting and focus group at the arts and crafts table the next day. "The nexth order of buthineth is my mithing tooth. All in favor of trading it in for a dollar thay aye."
And so on the eve of losing her second tooth, which I didn't even know was loose in the first place, I did the honors in Alex's absence. Afterward, we two old pros went to the park to give Sohpie's gums some air.
Already today a glimpse of enamel is peeking through the space. Progress. And so the clock returns to ticking down to the next thing that makes us all cry for a bit, while we wonder--in futility--when the world will hold still long enough for us to stop growing up.
"This movie is boring," she said. "Will you pull my tooth out for me?"
"Of course," I said, "I'd be happy to."
I grabbed a paper towel and a cup of salt water, and a few seconds later, I held what looked like a tiny kernel of corn between my thumb and forefinger. "What are you going to do with it?" I asked.
Sophie put her hands on her hips, cocked her head and said, "What do you think?"
The outsider wouldn't know it, but this is big progress for everyone. Sophie's first loose tooth was the source of some complicated feelings. Afraid of how much it would hurt to pull it all the way out, she left it dangling for so long that it started to turn black. "What if I don't want to grow up?" she asked me.
Afraid to pain anyone further that night, I delegated the dirty work to Alex, who took a paper towel, and after much cajoling, put it over her tiny incisor. He gave it a tug upward and outward. One giant leap for maturity. "Go look in the mirror!" we said. Knowing that children in these situations take their cues about how to feel from the adults around them, we tried our best to look deliriously happy. I felt like fainting.
Sophie ran, crying all the way, to the bathroom, holding her tooth in the paper towel. She bared her bleeding gums, and exhibited every human emotion there is all at the same time. She was, to use the modern parlance that refers to the physical manifestation of psychic multitasking, "a hot mess." She smiled and laughed and looked like she had just won the Olympics. "Oh my God," she said, glowing with pride.
"Congratulations," I said. We hugged in the bathroom, she bled on my shirt. "You did it," I said, wiping her lip. My girl.
Hours of deep conversation followed after that. What did it all mean? Why does everything always have to change? Why does it have to hurt? Why is it so scary? And should she surrender her tooth to the Tooth Fairy, or hold on to it? "I'd like to think about it for a while," she decided just before bed, and said she planned to seek the counsel of her peers at camp the next day. I imagined her holding something between a Quaker consensus meeting and focus group at the arts and crafts table the next day. "The nexth order of buthineth is my mithing tooth. All in favor of trading it in for a dollar thay aye."
And so on the eve of losing her second tooth, which I didn't even know was loose in the first place, I did the honors in Alex's absence. Afterward, we two old pros went to the park to give Sohpie's gums some air.
Already today a glimpse of enamel is peeking through the space. Progress. And so the clock returns to ticking down to the next thing that makes us all cry for a bit, while we wonder--in futility--when the world will hold still long enough for us to stop growing up.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Resignation
I haven’t written anything, anything at all, in at least six months. In fact, I’m thinking about quitting writing altogether, but I have no idea who accepts these types of resignations. Perhaps this is the thing that keeps some writers going: There’s no one to quit to. When I retrace my steps to what brought me here, it doesn’t look so terrible on paper, and yet, I consider this last year an exercise in finding out what I’m made of. So far, whatever it is doesn’t smell anything like teen spirit.
Last September my daughter Sophie went to Kindergarten. The only thing I remember about her first day of school is trying not to hurl while watching her get on the bus. In December, I accepted an offer for a full-time job I didn’t know I was being considered for. I was happy to take the work, as I was eager to start meeting people who don’t have pink eye or strep. I did, however, make sure to get pneumonia just before starting. In March, I quit working out. I decided it would be easier to buy bigger clothes than make it to the gym. In April, I turned 41. In February, my dad became seriously ill, and in May he died after a 60-year battle with a disease he didn’t even know he had. June was a blur, and here we are in July. Pretty soon I’m going to need more new clothes.
This is how it happens, isn’t it? I had big dreams, big aspirations that have shrunk and decayed over time, and now even the smallest of those little goodies seems unattainable. Grad school, authorship, a real career, some kind of entrepreneurial pursuit: I’m losing sight of how any of these things are possible. So I’ll keep doing what I’m doing: the laundry, the dishes. I will keep coming to work in the morning, and leaving sometime later. I will take care of Sophie. I will wear a rubber mouthpiece to bed that keeps me from clenching my jaw hard enough to break my own teeth. Learning to knit has been fun. I’m due for a mammogram! And maybe I’ll just start writing something—something smaller than an essay but bigger than a tweet—every single day. Maybe it’ll be fun, and if it isn’t, I can always quit. I think.
Sincerely,
Jody A. Reale
Last September my daughter Sophie went to Kindergarten. The only thing I remember about her first day of school is trying not to hurl while watching her get on the bus. In December, I accepted an offer for a full-time job I didn’t know I was being considered for. I was happy to take the work, as I was eager to start meeting people who don’t have pink eye or strep. I did, however, make sure to get pneumonia just before starting. In March, I quit working out. I decided it would be easier to buy bigger clothes than make it to the gym. In April, I turned 41. In February, my dad became seriously ill, and in May he died after a 60-year battle with a disease he didn’t even know he had. June was a blur, and here we are in July. Pretty soon I’m going to need more new clothes.
This is how it happens, isn’t it? I had big dreams, big aspirations that have shrunk and decayed over time, and now even the smallest of those little goodies seems unattainable. Grad school, authorship, a real career, some kind of entrepreneurial pursuit: I’m losing sight of how any of these things are possible. So I’ll keep doing what I’m doing: the laundry, the dishes. I will keep coming to work in the morning, and leaving sometime later. I will take care of Sophie. I will wear a rubber mouthpiece to bed that keeps me from clenching my jaw hard enough to break my own teeth. Learning to knit has been fun. I’m due for a mammogram! And maybe I’ll just start writing something—something smaller than an essay but bigger than a tweet—every single day. Maybe it’ll be fun, and if it isn’t, I can always quit. I think.
Sincerely,
Jody A. Reale
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