People Say the Damnedest Things

Being a parent has really forced me to get back in touch with myself and what I believe to be truth. Kids do ask the damnedest questions:

     "Why do people kill people?"

     "Where do people go when they die?"

     "Why did (my friend)'s younger cousin die of cancer?"

     "Why is (a boy) in my class hungry every day?"

     "Why did (a boy in my class)'s father die in a war?"

     "What is war?"

And I believe that people need to talk about and debate things, hard things, controversial things, to have any hope of living through them, understanding them, or correcting them—for ourselves and especially for the next generation.

But I also believe wholeheartedly that we need to learn to doubt ourselves more, too. (And I learned that in a morality class in my eleventh year of religious school. Thank you, Father McSweeney.) This does not necessarily have to be a turning away from what you believe in either. It just means doubt. And I believe that doubt can lead to understanding.

"Do you think it was fair to tell your brother he couldn't play with you and your friend? How would you feel if they left you out?"

Occasional doubt in what you say and do is valuable.

I also believe that these arguments can be done without going out of one's way to put others down, but I think that people need to stop being afraid of passionate or comedic words, too. Sticks and stones may break bones, but an f-bomb or a joke—even a bad, poorly written one—ideally shouldn't hurt anyone, (Mr. Stinkypants).

And why are people's souls, spirits—whatever you like to call it—not built stronger? I lean toward the belief that most often people are not taught—or do not have the opportunity—to handle debate, both internal and external debate, in a safe, open, supportive home with their family first.

Now I'm usually not too afraid of an argument or my own hurt feelings because I have some confidence (which is not the same thing as intractability), and I recognize that thinking usually comes out of these conversations. I also understand that my sum intellect is not in question if I am sometimes wrong. And I don't want my children to be afraid to think because they are afraid of being wrong. Great discoveries were made by people with great minds who were once greatly confused. And I am often greatly confused. (Therefore, I must be great?!) At any rate I am very comfortable with confusion now. (Thank you, kids.) Confusion makes me feel closer to truth.

After a debate, I then try, painfully at times, to remain open to others with whom I don't agree. That often means forgiving my former self, too. Sometimes I need time first, but I feel as though I must continue to acknowledge that these opinions exist. This part is really hard. It's hard to keep my ears open.

     "Ma, Ma, Mommy, Ma, Mom, Mum, Mom."

     "I hate you."

     "You're stupid."

Or the facebook-experiment versions:

     "They're so stupid."

     "Fuck them all."
   
     "Let them and their children die fiery deaths."

     "Get rid of them (and anyone who agrees with them or who doesn't think like I do) and start over."

Sure, kill everyone you don't agree with and start over. That's always worked well in the past.

People, myself included, say the damnedest things.

And we so often say too much and do too little. It's so easy to be tyrannical in our beliefs when we push buttons from behind screens. But yes, I did just say that words should not break us. I do believe that. But I also believe that we need to sit in greater judgment of ourselves before we spew fear and hate mongering in the sickly blue, antisocial light of our laptops, too. Being brave on the Internet isn't the same thing as being brave in real life. Not at all. Fortunately being hateful and murderous on the Internet isn't the same as being hateful and murderous in real life either. Phew.

By the way, I also think that a fear of argument or just poor debating skills is why some marriages don't work. You can't live with other people if you're always on different teams. You can, however, live with people who don't share your opinions.

I think I married a pretty open, loving, forgiving man. And I thank him for always accepting me as myself and for caring enough to argue back. And he aaaallllwaaaays argues back.

I wouldn't want it any other way.

A Place in the Universe

Recently while taking a physics class, I was surprised to learn that we've only known that the Milky Way galaxy is not the entire universe for less than a century.

But I think I've always been fine with a universe that only made sense in the space just beyond my mind. I was raised by a star gazer. And I still feel that that space outside of myself is as legitimate as I am, if not more so.

We don't even really know the exact shape of the universe, but we do know, best estimate, that there are at least one hundred billion galaxies. One hundred billion galaxies with our own galaxy containing at least one hundred billion stars. And there may or may not be a multiverse.

Rules about how we are supposed to live and think and feel and fuck and behave won't change that. In fact nothing we say or do will change that.

And these galaxies, this ordinary matter of which we are made, make up only 4% of the composition of the universe. The rest is dark, unknown, and for now, unknowable.

Understanding this as a real possibility makes me okay with feeling infinitesimal and okay with noticing and cherishing the smallness of others.

And when I write, that's usually all I really want to say. This is where I'm at most of the time, and when I'm not here, I'm just raging and bumbling.

The only thing that has ever really made me feel great is to love and to be loved. That's it. It's not a new concept, and yet when I don't I remember it on a regular basis, I think I'm missing the whole point.

In fact lately I feel like I'm missing the whole point too frequently---outside of my own home. Inside of my house I feel like the whole universe fits cozily tucked in a warm bed inside of my small ranch.

But I do realize that feeling this way means I may be running the risk of turning hermit in my old age. And I also note that my universe, as a universe tends to do, will eventually grow, and I need to grow, and my faith in people needs to grow. Disliking or keeping all that I deem ugly or hard or dangerous away from my children won't help them. They, we, will just have to deal with it and cope.

But I hope that I can try to improve small situations in small ways through love. And I hope that they can, too. I hope they will never fear that space outside of themselves enough to disconnect.

Because you see, I, we, are not going to be connected in this way forever.

And when I meet people I sometimes want to say, You are loved by me, who is very flawed and very small, and I hope that my love for you makes you feel great.

Fisherman of Men

My people were always seafaring people
trained to instinctively work long hours
and sleep short.
Good sea legs,
broad shoulders,
cast iron stomachs.
Imaginative enough to be happy
playing with clouds
and tricks of sunlight
on a fickle sea
for weeks at a time.

All knew we were thought of
as a simple people,
bawdy of humor,
determined to survive,
but ready to die
should the wrong storm blow in.

Aside from the thin skin,
overly sensitive to sea salt and sun,
we were perfectly suited to
the life of fishermen.

What I liked best, of course,
better than catching
the fish that made our livelihood,
was when I could rescue the odd soul
stranded at sea.

I admit, I was proud.
Proud of my expert knots and
thick, long ropes.
The boys would say,
"Strong enough to hang yourself!"
I was proud of my solid arms
that could reel in any fish
or man.
Proud to be a fisherman.

One bright afternoon
I caught you,
jewel of the sea,
sunlight in your eyes.
You stayed aboard for years.
We figured you'd found your home,
never expecting you to stay,
but always glad to keep you.
You gave our lives meaning,
fed our hunger,
softened us with your beauty.

5 years.

One night all slept
while you walked the plank.

I threw you a rope.
But you let go.

Jewel of the sea,
I'm still pulling in that rope,
but there's no one on the other side.
I'm not well suited.
My skin is thin.
I'm not humbled by my loss.
I'm a fisherman and know not
what else to do.

Weeks later, a storm nearly took us out.
But the vessel remained afloat.
It had nothing to do with us.
We cowered.

There's nothing left at the end of this rope
but forgiveness.

I cast my line again.