his best

blog entry

 

February 21, 2008

7:52 P.M.

 

A full belly. A stiff drink. And finally, the fingers to the keys. Has been far too long. Need this. Some senseless sensitivity. To clean out the upstairs. Trim the hedges. Hoe the garden. Do what needs to be done so that I can sleep with reality. The truth. The recognition. That this is as good as it gets. Beautiful fiancée. Joyful little boy. The woman that will be my wife. The child that I can call son.

 

And there was no warmth to the sun today. As we walked. All three of us. In and around the Detroit Zoo. Amazed that Tigers lounge in the snow. That Peacocks waltz and share their feathers in temperatures that seem too cold for color.

 

Somehow—with little time and me trying to write two books and her teaching hundreds of kids and both of us trying to raise our own boy into a man—we’ve chosen our colors. For the wedding. That waits. On 08/08/08. And with the help of family and friends, we have nailed down many of the details. Preacher, church, hall. Food, drinks, music. And it feels good. To know that we are headed to another starting place. For better or for worse. As long as we both shall live.

 

Water. I want to live by the water. Spend my days with family. Fishing in my own little boat. Tying minnow traps to the end of the dock. Catching crayfish for summer night bonfires and butter sizzling in the pan. I want to cross country ski across the frozen lake. Light an orange glow in the fireplace. Want to see my wife. Relaxing on the deck. In the sunset. And my kids. Running through the lawn. I need the water. To sit upstairs. My bird’s eye view. And write. Pen to paper. Or fingers to keys. I need it. And it needs me.

 

Me. Me. Me. But it isn’t about me. You. Mr. Stevens. It’s about the big picture. The one you see. That you keep aiming for. And that thank God, you cannot reach. Because if you could, things would be different. You might not want to fight. Make amends. Beat those that need beating. Save those that don’t know they need saving. Write layer upon layer so that everyone is caught. Those on the surface. And those falling. Tumbling. Helplessly through the cracks.

 

I’m cracked. Broken. But like Hem says,

 

“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

 

And now, at 34, I see. There is no hurry. Everything I’ve always suspected to be true and right is True and is Right. The only thing a man can do is his best. And his best can only be done if he keeps at keepin’ on.

 

- K.J.