Dealing with the Day

With each day that passed, I felt exceedingly comfortable with the banality of life. Each uneventful hour spent in routine represented the safety of consistency. I used to value this predictability in life, I used to appreciate the repetition and I used to embrace the comfort for the many ways they made living easy. I found peace in knowing that I’d finish my day in the same space in which it began. It’s as if I’d made a promise with the sunrise that, in order to fully appreciate her beauty I must be guaranteed the same luxury tomorrow. In her desire for appreciation she begrudgingly accepts and I delight in the moments I’ve earned myself, aware that the same transaction awaits me tomorrow. This deal becomes so deeply ingrained in our lives; we grow to overlook its importance.

One day, without warning, I was informed that though this deal had been struck for myself, someone I cared for deeply hadn’t been extended the same courtesy.

I awoke that day to see nature in turmoil, with the dreary appearance of guilt plastered above in the morning’s sky. Yet, I’d made a routine of stormy skies, and with haste I purchased one more day as I exclaimed unexcitedly “what a beautiful morning”. I knew the irony in my sentiment, but such things are to be appreciated, I supposed. As I made my way from the shelter of the cabin to that of the dining hall, I grew to resent my words with an increasing level of frustration. The weight of each falling drop became a burden too heavy to bear, so I spent the day seeking shelter.

It was around the time I made my way into the dining hall that he had arrived, a fact I’d remain unaware of for the time being. Writhing in pain and wholly unaware of the world around him, he was brought in their desperation to improve his circumstance. He had been transferred the night before, life leaking from him steadily as they transfused without success. His consciousness wrapped up in the torment of the moment, the routine had been shattered and its repair seemed too complex for even the most skilled of laborers.

My meal passed quickly and uneventfully, with forgettable conversations ranging from the usual (“wow, this food is really good”) to their standard for usual (“why is he dancing like that?”), all very fitting points of discussion for these youth. I spend my time at the table’s edge, overseeing the social dynamic of my group from the fringes. I ask myself whether everyone is being accepted, how they’re caring for one another, whether they’re getting enough food; I fulfill my duty as the makeshift parent for the weekend. Parenting 7 boys is an experience one cannot adequately describe, and I am thankful that our return trip commences at the end of this meal. As we finish eating, I quickly make my way from the dining hall to the bus, still trying to avoid the weight of the falling rain.

With desperation he fumbles with his phone, clumsily inputting the wrong information and having to try again. His task is a thankless one, his burden is heavy. As he prepares his script, tears welling in his eyes, he is relieved by the sound of the automated voice as it gives him time to choose his words carefully. “Matt” he says, “it’s dad…grandpa’s not doing too well…” He trails off aware that the distance between his son and his father is a gap that may remain forever wide.

As if the weekend hadn’t been enough excitement, the bus ride home never feels fast enough. Thankfully the weight of their eyelids is greater than their desire to sing out on this confined space and many youth fade into an uncomfortable rest. It is on the bus that, as we re-enter civilization, cell phone reception is restored to our phones and I see one voicemail message. Typically a call from my father denotes a usual check-in to see how I’m doing which is both slightly embarrassing and wholly comforting. As I decide to preview the message, I pull my sunglasses over my eyes and listen in stunned silence as I feel pain wash over me in waves. I feel. I feel weak. I feel weak and helpless. Sobbing loudly I feel guilty, I feel worried, I feel nothing beyond the moment as the monotony of life is disrupted and agony seeps in. This is not the life I’ve grown accustomed to. The bus ride home never feels fast enough.

When I arrive at the hospital, I’ve had hours to think. I've thought about life, about the dangers of comfort, about the unsettling feeling we get when we realize that we do not bargain for each day on our terms, regardless of how in control we may feel. I’ve thought about the powers of prayer and the limits of worldly strength, about the hope that goes beyond my control and reaches into another realm for influences beyond our imagination. I’ve thought about a goodbye that surpasses routine and reaches into the infinite. I’ve thought of what to say; how to stand beside someone in a moment of uncertainty and be reassuring in the face of doubt.

Yet, when it is my turn to see him and I approach this man, I fumble with my words, clumsily tripping over my tongue in my silence. I hold his hand; I stare at his motionless body and can’t help but think that my last goodbye will not be heard. They tell me he can hear in this state, so I pray with him. I petition for him on his behalf that one more day would be granted, that he would overcome this state and stay with us. My dad says his eyes flicker during this prayer, that there was a response. For me, this becomes a moment of turmoil as I struggle to believe and reconcile that he has heard me. I leave the room unsure, in a space between reality and perception where I’d rather remain uncertain than dwell on an unforgiving result.

It is four days later that my grandfather awakens, with each day since our visit spent steadily gaining his strength. There is no certainty that I was heard, no certainty that my petition accomplished anything, no moment I feel assured that anything beyond his own body’s response brought him back to us. Yet, to this day I am reminded of the fragility of each morning. I am reminded that there is no comfort to be found in the routine, that we must reject the limitations of monotony. Though it may feel safe, routine reminds me of a life void of vibrancy. I no longer wish to wake each morning bargaining for one more but rather to finish each evening grateful for the excitement lived before the setting sun.  

To reminisce

If this is the YOLO generation, why is it that everyone insists on capturing the moment via whatever technology they can get their hands on? At the Mumford concert the other night (which, by the way, was amazing but that sort of goes without saying) I had to find viewing windows above and around outstretched arms wielding low quality recording devices. Everyone had to not only capture the moment, but capture the moment from their own perspective. At one point, they mentioned the beautiful moon behind us, and people began turning to take pictures...of the moon...the same moon that's always been there...as if it were only made significant by the moment they found themselves in. If we're living once, why do we need data to relive? In our efforts to perfect deja vu, we've discarded the art of reminiscence.

There is subtle beauty in the passing moment, and a joy in knowing that we'll never get it back. Our experiences make up our identity; all of who we are is lived out in the moments that pass. As we fade away, we hope that we've left an impression in the memories we share. If my eulogy is composed not of anecdotes but rather Youtube highlights and slideshows, I should think I've not been remembered at all.

On and On and On

We are the unexperienced cliche,
humanity's trope viewing the world through the eyes of naivety
while we bring nothing new to existence.
We are no more than a self-absorbed cycle.

It's depressingly dark how, when I sit down to write, it's thoughts like these that plague my mind. Whenever I write, insecurities abound and I think about the worst possible circumstances in which I may one day find myself. I think forward to an existence of nothingness, or a life lived in constant forgetfulness and I write to capture life as I live now. What an odd thing to wish to document.

I feel as though writing is the process by which I share my self. I am given the freedom to say whatever I wish and as I write I think of nothing beyond my own thoughts. So often we tailor who we are or what we say to our audience as a means of coexisting, this can be such a tiring process when all we are looking for is someone to hear everything we need to say. Like I said above, this is all such a self-centered cycle but I suppose there are moments within one's life where they transcend the trivial reflections and leave something that lasts. This is something worth striving for. I feel as though one day I'll have something so valuable to say that I must prepare my voice, without losing it altogether droning on about pessimistic observations.

I want to write a song. I want to create something that I can be proud of, something that I can perform, something that requires focus and attention. I've been lacking these traits lately, finding myself pulled all sorts of directions while freely confined to the computer chair at my desk. Motivation is a paradoxical beast; how is it that I can spend so much time wanting to want to do something while paralyzed from any actual action or pursuit? I want to be a musician, I want to be more physically active, I want to be more assertive and I want to be more adventurous. I wake up with these sort of goals on my mind, and go to sleep aware of the fact I've fallen short. Somewhere between the sun's rise and fall, I've been pulled away from ambition until I'm reminiscing of the missed opportunity. I pray life doesn't follow this same trajectory for me. I suppose I only ever worry in reflection.

On another note, I recently met someone whose abilities I greatly admire at his poetry reading/show thing. It's funny how someone else's words can express the pain of your heart better than anything you've ever uttered. As I sat in my seat listening to him speak about life, love, heartbreak, loss, and a variety of other subjects, I was fully focused on his every word as though he'd speak secrets of the universe I'd never again have the chance to hear. He read my favorite poem, Move Pen Move, as his encore, and I was brought to tears at the possibilities life may yet have in store for me. After the show, I met him, posed for a picture, and then went on my way. Even those words, the ones which reach deep into my chest and grasping my heart, squeezing it and forcing it to beat faster while grabbing hold of my breath in an effort to fully capture my attention, even they become lost in the night, washed away by the downpour of a Vancouver rain. I drove off without saying anything more to the man whose inspired me, perhaps some day down the line I'll inspire someone and realize that nothing's changed.

The most populated places wreak of loneliness;
collective consciousness coordinates ignorance
as we, bound tightly, look outward
and suffer inward.

We coexist in mutual misunderstanding,
sworn to silence by our desire to fit in
to ever shrinking spaces.

Stepping backward, we search ourselves for dividing lines,
thrusting forward those who we force to stand out;

we sling slurs of sympathy for those we victimize.