The Message

Hazels Ceiling Fan

I’m reading a book in bed with my 8-year-old. It’s meant for 9-year-olds, but that’s not why I’m reading it to her. I’m reading it because it’s one of the only books my 18-year-old (the older one) liked. And I never read it with her. It was her mom who read that one.

But I always wondered about that book, so I sort of forced the on Hazel; she’s the 8-year-old.

It’s written well. It’s about grade-schoolers, probably 4th or 5th grade. Hard to tell. Anyway, I’m reading it, and there’s this part where a girl runs out of the classroom because she’s being made fun of by the other students, and a teacher, the good teacher, follows her out to the swing set and he patiently stands there while she cries and wipes snot away with her shirtsleeves.

And it’s right at this part where my voice, for some reason, gets lost in my throat a little bit, like I just realized I’m in front of a crowd.

I try to prevent myself from blinking because I know how a single blink can release a tear. Hazel and I are so close, laying there on the bed together, she’ll definitely see it.

I keep reading, knowing that these words were read before and loved before, loved by my 18-year once a 10-year old — that 18-year-old who is absolutely brilliant but has always hated reading, HATED reading, vowed never to do it if she could help it+, and more or less stuck with that premise.

The girl on the swing, back in the book, she says this thing she’s been keeping inside, the thing that drove her out of the classroom. She wants to tuck it back down, away from her teacher, away from the schoolyard, but in time, there’s just no more room to hide such things.

And these words she spoke, they had to be in my daughter’s brain at some point, had to have crossed her mind.

“I can’t read, okay! I can’t read!”

And I am floored.

I love this part, the part of the teacher standing there silently as a witness, knowing that this moment is changing a life.

I feel every single word in my throat as I read them to Hazel, still hoping she doesn’t notice that her old man is somewhere else, not because I don’t want her to know but because I don’t want her to stop me. I want us to keep reading. I want to live in that schoolyard, stand near that swing, bear witness, reach out to a part of a girl that is hated by the other parts. Be there now, where I wasn’t before.

The teacher is great. He does everything right: patient, soft, kind. I wish I had had this moment but it’s his, and I can only borrow it. And honestly, that’s good enough because few things are as immensely spectacular as a dad’s love… Something so great it can outwit time. Reading this book, being this teacher, I’m reaching into a place where things are stored forever, where emotions travel millenia, where there is always an open door to put things because they are the right things.

As I read, I know it’s a moment that never happened for me but I feel like it did. I feel like I’ve already uttered these words, or maybe was meant to.

You’re not stupid.
You’re an incredible artist.
You’re good at math.
You’re good at telling stories.
You just think differently, that’s all.
You see the world differently.

You have dyslexia.

I say these things, along with the teacher, exactly as the teacher, feeling the vibrations in my throat, the texture of the pages, the soft mud of the ground beneath the swing.

It’s weird, as if the thoughts of a 10-year-old, now 18-year-old, somehow slid free and fell into the book, then laid there patiently in the crease for 8 years…

And the teacher waited.

And the schoolyard waited.

And the child running to the swing waited, held onto her secret, while I went through all the things: making lunches, checking math homework, praising artwork, driving there and back, patting her leg on the ride home after the school kids laughed at her spelling on the blackboard.

It makes no sense, but it’s undeniable: this love I’m having for the girl on the swing, this resonance with the tall, lanky teacher.

Like a wire traveling all the way from Massachusetts to California, all the way from 5th grade to college, and back home again.

It’s like she’s talking to me, her ghost or her spirit, something that isn’t burdened by time.

It’s powerful, this moment. Inexplicably powerful.

Hazel’s eyes are closed; there is a peace on her face that fits so well, I start sobbing.

I draw a line down the crease of the book with my finger, close it, and leave it on my chest, rising up and down with my breaths. I look up at the ceiling fan; its pattern becomes a song.

Whirrwhirrrwhirrwhirr Whirrwhirrrwhirrwhirr Whirrwhirrrwhirrwhirr

On my back, so deep in my thoughts I’m not even sure if I’m speaking out loud.

But I’m speaking.

I got the message, girl. Don’t worry about nothing. Daddy got it.

The Dark Place

Landscape photo of forest

I founded my company on optimism. It’s who I am.

But even the BrightSide gets dark now and then.

And when it does, I try my best to welcome the darkness. It’s coming whether you want it to or not. There’s much to discover in the darkness.

But it’s not a place to spend a lot of time, it’s not a good place for analysis, it doesn’t lend much in the way of problem-solving.

When I’m in the dark place, I try to avoid planning or dreaming because dreams that are built in the dark place never unfold the way you wish them to; you always seem to build down, down down, deeper into the earth, instead of up into the sky.

The dark place darkens everything, even the way out.

And it’s hard to hold on when you can’t see the exit.

But hold on, you must, for you’re in the middle of your work, and, though it seems impossible, the sun will come back, not because you deserve it and not because of some cosmic justice, but for the simple fact that the world is turning.

How comforting.

Don’t solve. Don’t plan. Don’t ponder. There’s a better time for that.

When you’re in the dark place, just get through.

Change starts in the dark, seeds germinate in the gound, but nothing truly blooms without the light.

Achievement of the Day

instagram: _juanmay

Ours is a species driven toward accomplishment. We often hinge good-feeling on getting things done, we push relaxation to come after something else. The beer tastes better after mowing the lawn. (Makes me want to mow the lawn lol).

This is a good way to live: a productive way to live. Do the thing, then seek reward.

But when I’m at my best, when I’ve got that fleeting feeling that I’ve figured it all out, it’s enough just to put on a pair of warm socks, drink tea, listen to the sounds that already exist around me, and think about the good things in my life, then, now, and tomorrow.

As easy as this is to do, this is often the hardest thing for us to do.

The Check-In

“Hey, just checking in. How you doing?”

Man.

So few words, so much impact.

So much love around you in an instant.

Whether you’re good or not so good, you feel seen, remembered, and held.

And if you haven’t gotten one of these sweet sweet checkins in a while, the beautiful thing is you can always ALWAYS send one.

A fraction of an ounce of time to produce a deluge of love and support.

And, not that this is the reason to do it, but it comes back to you too.

It’s impossible for it not to.

Like a coin in the wishing well, a giggling child on a swing.

Delivering as you deliver.

As real as gravity.

No. Even more real than that.

Beauty.

Yeah, beauty.

Only possible within us when there is something between us.

Our small movements;

Life itself.

When You Know You’re Winning

4th and 5th grade was my soccer heyday. We were good and mostly all friends. We’d won the state championships. And when we had each other over for playdates, all we wanted to do was play soccer.

Dave, one of my besties, invited me over and we almost immediately begged his dad to go out and play with us in the backyard. 2 on 1. Kids vs the adults. Our favorite.

Dave’s yard was slanted, enough so you had to compensate for it when you passed the ball. And his dad had just cut the lawn, which put a certain magic in the air (and made the ball roll a little faster).

Dave’s dad wasn’t an athlete, but we were still at that age when adults could beat us simply by being adults.

The score was tied 3-3 when Mr. H. made intercepted a pass and split our defense. He hustled down the field toward the open goal. No one between him and victory. I can still remember standing, not running, realizing we were about to lose. State champions, about to lose to a dad who never played in his life.

But…

He missed. Didn’t play the curve and shanked it. Rookie mistake. Missed by inches.

“Oh geez,” he said. “That wasn’t very good,” which put me and Dave in a fit; we flung on our backs, laughing our little 10-year-old butts until we couldn’t even breathe. I honestly couldn’t stop laughing.

Decades later, I’m a dad. And a coach. Thirteen 8-year-old girls. They swarm me like bumble bees. It’s sort of become a thing: trying to get the ball from Coach Cliff.

And they’re at that age when I can keep the ball from them simply because I’m an adult. But let’s not forget I’m also a former 4th-grade State Champion, so I can keep the ball from them for a good while.

And I do.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit sloppy with my ball control. Part of it’s teasing them, but part of it’s me, in the back of my mind, hoping they stick their foot out a little farther or figure out my mojo (I only remember so many moves). It’s almost like I’m creating the opportunity to lose.

Or, perhaps more to the point, leaving an opening for them to win.

It goes on for a while, me doing pull-backs and step-overs and them following me. Some cheat; they tug at my arms and pull at my belt, giggling the whole time. Others keep it serious; you can see it on their faces: “I’m gonna get that ball.”

And they always do.

Perhaps I’m a bit rusty. A bit less refined than my elementary school days. Less coordinated than a bunch of spanking-brand-new 8-year-old athletes.

But that kid that gets the ball, she’s so happy.

“Aw, geez,” I say, with a crestfallen hunch in my posture. They laugh and run away down the field.

And, as I’m in the midst of losing this made-up game with so much joy in my heart, I gotta wonder, still to this day…

Did Mr. H. really miss that shot?

One Less of Us

Although I was hoping for it to happen all week, it sort of happened organically.

“Ow!” I heard Evaline say through the wall, which made me stop typing.

She came into my office.

“I stepped on a tack. Do you still have that cup of thumbtacks?”

I pointed to my closet.

“I need scissors,” she said.

“Not the lefties,” I said. And that’s what prompted me to get up.

“Here,” I said.

“Which shoes do you think I should bring?” she asked.

And, since I don’t have her shoes memorized, that’s how it started. That’s what brought us into her room. Together.

There were piles of stuff on the floor and the bed, a chaotic organization; Post-it notes (yellow, pink, and blue ones) affixed to her belongings signifying some sort of hierarchy. The shoes were in neat little rows in front of her cosplay shelf.

“Man, you got some good shoes,” I said.

“I know, right?”

We managed to cut out some of the least-worn pairs, but that left quite a few in the “definitely taking” pile, including the C-3PO flats and the 8-inch platform boots she wore as Jack Skellington from Nightmare Before Christmas. All told, she had 6 pairs of shoes, not including her go-to Vans, Docs, and Berks downstairs.

“Do you see my problem?”

And then I did what parents do, what big people do for little people without even thinking about it, what comes naturally when you see a child in need: I problem-solved.

“We’ll get you a shoe rack, I said. “If you go vertically, your shoes won’t be all over the place. you’ll have more floor space, and your roommate won’t want to kill you. We can pick it up in we’ll get it New Haven, so you don’t have to pack it.”

(I’m almost certain my mom said this to me at one point in my life.)

“You don’t think it’s weird to bring so many shoes?”

“Some people have a lot of shoes.”

By this time, I was curled up on her bed, leaning on my elbow, taking in all the pictures, artwork, costumes, pieces of stagecraft, signed circus posters, medals, internship lanyards, and hand-scrawled signs that chronicled her years of life. Many of the artifacts were projects I had a hand in, but there were plenty of things she did all by herself. Anyone who ever touched this girl was in here.

“I’m proud of you,” I said, knowing it was a lame thing to say.

“Yeah.” And she paused a second to look around. “I took one of the hot glue guns.”

“Good,” I said. “You should.”

“Do we have masking tape?”

“In my tool bag. I’ll grab it for you.”

She already had 3 large IKEA bags piled high in the hall by the stairs, a box of postcards and drawings from friends, a hat box with 3 juggling hats, and a massive foam-core screen-printed poster that says “Stand Out,” which she planned to cut into quarters to fit it into one of those bags.

Moving Bags are sad, but it’d be worse if they weren’t there.

Kids are meant to outgrow their home, just like they outgrow their clothes.

And, though I have a tightness in my chest, which has been there for 2 weeks now, I love those bags and everything in them, and that row of ridiculous shoes, and that beautiful fucking sign which is going to be so hard to take on the plane.

And I love that girl. With my whole heart, not just a piece of it.

Which is why it hurts so much to let her go.

What We Seek

Don’t search division, hate, and conflict. We have enough of that.

Search joy. Search neighborliness. Search surprise. Search kindness. Search beauty in small things. Search healing. Search brighter days. Search love.

Because what we seek — that is to say, what we like, follow, and subscribe to — is being recorded and tallied.

Yes.

Our tiny, hidden actions while lying on the couch, sitting in the parking lot, or waiting for the pot to boil, they matter. When clumped together and translated into a broadcast, they matter. A million tiny whispers become a roar.

And it’s not just the algorithms keeping score.

Our hungry little brains take it all in, add it all up, and multiply.

It’s hard to believe the impact our thumbs are having.

On the world.

And us.

Let’s make sure we’re sending the right message.

Beautiful Science

Red blood cells

What if Love was actually Science…

…Our minds subconsciously and frenetically working to line up our own idiosyncracies and aspirations with those of another, resulting in an explosive neuro-chemical overload, caffeinated synapses, an emergency signal to the body to break the damn glass and act.

And so we swoon and glow and expand, our limbs grossly imprecise and impulsive, mortars going off, dust flying, blood vessels burning up like fuses, when in actuality it’s a tedious calculation that’s leading the way. We move, clunky like marionettes, at the mercy of these evolved equations we don’t understand and so, at times, fear.

So much dictated by these moments, dreams co-architected, futures decided — a million electrical pulses creating one overwhelming sensation that unfolds in an instant, carrying so much with it, like a hand-sewn picnic blanket full of dishes, clanking in a heap until it effortlessly lays just the right amount of place settings.

When Science wows us the most, it might as well be magic.

And when it reaches us at the same time, when it connects us in a way we can’t explain…

It has to be love.

Good Neighbors

I was just about to sit down and look up the latest political nightmare when I got the text I’d been waiting for.

“Okay. We’re back.”

I threw on my shoes and ran down my steps. As I hit the sidewalk and saw their dusty car sticking halfway out of the garage like some prehistoric creature, I put some urgency into my gait.

P was sitting sideways in the backseat in pajama bottoms, a cat shirt, and a cardigan. His adult daughter stood by the car with his cane. She’s the one who texted me.

“Okay. How can I help?”

We had 3 flights of stairs ahead and an inclined walkway between us and the kitchen, which already had a chair waiting inside the doorway. But first, we had to get him out of the car.

P just had heart surgery. He was a big guy.

If you’ve ever tried to get someone out of a backseat, you know that it’s not really possible without getting pretty up-close-and-personal. I’ve hugged P at parties but never wedged my hands deep into his armpits and put my neck over his shoulder. His armpits were warm and damp; his sweater scratchy on my chin.

We got him up and stood with him while he caught his breath, me with my hands still in the warmth of his armpits. My thoughts raced about what to do if his knees buckled, but anxiety subsided with the appearance of 4 neighbors walking toward us shoulder to shoulder.

“The calvary’s arrived!”

One was an MD, one was her wife, one had the most perfect patch of lawn on the block, and one was a hippie artist known for his adorable dog who he walked around the block seemingly 5 or 6 times a day.

B appeared with a folding chair, out came the walker, another cane. The 4 of us gathered around the big guy. We had backups upon backups, hands on shoulders, hands on hips, there were hands on my hands. We weren’t going to let him fall.

One step, several deep breaths, next step. More breaths. Folding chair at the landings. Questions about the hospital stay, someone pointing out the cat in the window, questions about my daughter, comments on the weather, someone put in an air conditioner. Wow, that’s crazy, we just use a fan. Us too. Have you guys tried that new Middle Eastern place?

Finally, that last step, then up the path. 3 more steps, into the kitchen.

Yes.

P sat in his chair — it was actually his chair, the one closest to the window, as noted by his daughter, noticeably relieved standing by the fridge watching her dad heave in and out.

“You made it,” said his wife, on crutches herself. “You’re home.”

He dropped his head ever so slightly and, as if cued by this motion, his wife looked up at us with the sincerest of looks, the kind of look that says I was just in a hospital for 2 weeks and I’ve been reminded about what’s really important. The kind of look that stops you, that holds you.

“We are so grateful for all of you.” She looked at each one of us, fanned out in the doorway, eyes to eyes, her gaze not at all rushed. “Thank you.”

And then I realized my hand was still on P’s shoulder as he sat there, the corners of his eyes were wet.

“Means the world,” he said without looking up, his voice shaking.

This family was royalty, the second oldest family on the block, 31 years in the neighborhood. That would make me about 19 years old and in college when they signed the lease and put up the slide in the backyard for their only daughter.

V told me how the reason she knew this was the right neighborhood was because of the cats. “The cats were so trusting,” she said. “I knew it was a kind neighborhood.”

And I thought about my neighbors, not just the ones around me but the ones I had wine with the night before and the other ones who asked me where I bought my pressure washer. They both have kids, all under 5, and it hit me that one of those kids would grow up and go to college and be tall and strong and maybe be invited over in the middle of the afternoon to shove their hands up into my armpits and hoist me out of my dusty old car. And that’s just the kind of thing that can make me cry these days. And honestly, I don’t know why, but it does. It hits me deep, and there’s nothing I can do.

I stood shoulder to shoulder with a calvary of caring neighbors, feeling so lucky but a little sad too, because this moment was already leaving us.

We all stood still. We all felt the same thing.

I noticed on my way out that the slide in the backyard was cracked, and the top had a doll up on it, sort of a scary doll that had been out in the rain for too many years. Just seeing that thing made me cry a bit, thinking about B as a little girl sliding down and yelling in glee at the spoils of her new backyard — mom look, a lemon tree! Kinda like my daughter did yesterday. Yeah, exactly like that.

In leaving, I realized those steps and that railing would never be the same to me and that my impromptu waves to neighbors while taking out the garbage will always last a little longer, at least for a few weeks, they will.

It felt good, like I’d grown, which is a strange thing for a grown-ass man to say, but that’s how I felt and that’s probably why I didn’t go immediately home, and instead walked across the street and knelt down next to the kitty cat lying there in the sun, all stretched out like the warm sidewalk was the only thing in the world to care about.

And I sat down there next to her and stroked her soft, grey fur, while something inside of me settled down.

Celebrating the Return

sunrise illustration

Everyone knows the saying “Don’t Know What you Got ‘Til It’s Gone.”

But here’s a new one, something that’s equally universal but with a positive spin.

Don’t Know What You Need ‘Til it’s Here.

Often times we go dark and get heavy without realizing it, as if when we sat down, someone or something put weights on our back and we didn’t realize it. So we go about our days as usual but walk a little slower, approach things with a little less motivation.

And, sadly, we usually blame ourselves for the slow-down, like something inside of us is broken.

But so many times, it’s not us. It’s something out there that disappeared silently so we didn’t have time to mourn it. Or maybe we watched the leaving but underestimated how much it would hurt.

And hurt comes through in lots of ways. It’s not always recognizable.

Tired angry lonely sad busy apathetic careless selfish selfless hopeless

So we clean our house and work our jobs and sleep in our beds and fail to realize that something is missing….

Until it shows up (again).

And all that weight is gone. We’re lighter. We have more energy. Our muscles work better. Our hearts beat more easily. We become more of who we’re meant to be, more of who we always were.

We’re taught so much that we can always manufacture light, even in the darkest hour. And we should try to make that happen. But sometimes the outside affects the inside and, try as we may, we can’t make the sun rise.

So go on. Go on if that’s all you can do. Try your best to lift the darkness, but if you can’t just hold onto the idea that something on the outside might be missing.

Because things can get better and the darkness can lift, even without your effort, just because the world spins.

And, by all means, no matter what your dance, make sure you celebrate when the light returns.