I measure you out a week at a time

and busy myself in burying the past.

New opportunities come and go, but

I don’t know which ones lead to a future

of peace. I tell myself the best I can do

is to not get lost in the things I can’t change.

It’s really not that dramatic, though.

Being happy is as easy

as waking up in the morning and moving closer

to you in the dim light, confident in the extra hours

ahead in an unplanned day with you.

The silent paradise of what it feels like to settle back

into sleep and not count the hours is as close to heaven

as I can get, and that is more than enough.

Once in a while, I reach a point of fatigue that requires me to admit that I have had enough. Without realizing it, lately I have slipped back into a pattern of “What do I have to do next?” and “What’s my next deadline?” Mind you, I work in education, so for the most part, the only deadlines with which I should be concerned are those I impose on my students, and yet I find myself scurrying from one check mark to the next, worried sick about making it “on time.” This has gone on so long, I don’t even remember what it is like to enjoy long stretches of time, which I qualify as more than three days in a row. I am exhausted, and it is showing. It has been showing for a long time.

This occurred to me less than an hour ago. I am drinking a beer and people-watching, on my one true day off this week, which only means that I didn’t have to clock in somewhere today, not that I don’t have fifty things to do. More check marks. I swore to myself a long time ago that I would not live a life defined by obstacles, and that is all I have done for more than four hundred days. I would do the math to determine the exact amount of time, but I would make myself sick by doing so. In the last year, I have fought more battles than I needed to, lost a massive relationship, rekindled the sparks of another two or three, made almost no progress on the work I want to do on my house, floated paycheck to paycheck, read few books, watched few movies, and generally have not lived the life I want to have. As it is for most of us, I have been my chief obstacle. Most of us know exactly what we want to do, at almost any given time. And then, we don’t do it. More check marks. More nonsense. More time wasted.

One high-top table away from me, a father sat opposite his young son, who was probably around four years old. People are coming and going in waves, and really I was minding my own business, but their conversation was intriguing. My eavesdropping started around the seven-minute mark, when Dad asked son who was the best football team.

Son: “I like the Bad Guys.”

Dad: “There is actually not a professional team called ‘The Bad Guys.'”

Son: “Yeah. I like them.”

Dad: “What colors do they wear?”

Son, starting to cough: “Dark colors.”

Dad: “Cover your mouth–what kind of dark colors? Black?”

Son: “Yeah, and other dark colors.”

Dad: “Ah, I see. What about teams that have dark colors and light colors? For different game days?”

Son: “I don’t know about that. Definitely The Bad Guys, though.”

Dad: “Gotcha.”

They went on like this for more than ten minutes, in a very casual tone. I did my best to pretend I was otherwise occupied, but I could not help laughing aloud more than once. A little while later, Mom showed up, and it became apparent what was actually going on. Mom and Dad said a few things to each other, but it seemed forced. Mom didn’t look at Dad, although he looked into her eyes and watched her lower lip tremble. She didn’t respond to his hug, and she seemed to shrink into the background as Dad walked around the table, stood son up on the chair, fixed his coat, said, “I’ll see you Tuesday, okay? I love you, buddy.”

Mom and son went into the food market part of the store, and Dad looked over his shoulder at both of them as he walked away, out into Sunday night. I finished my food, and stopped disinterestedly flipping through a text book. The dark blue of the late afternoon has turned to black. Christmas music is playing faintly in the background. It’s hard to breathe.

This year has been another hard one. I am tired of being alone, but I am more tired of doing things I do not want to do. I am tired of running from check mark to check mark. I am sick of this manufactured life. I refuse to do this for another year. I did not forget how to spend my laughs, but I scheduled them to occur after obligations were met. It’s not much of a way to live, but it is a pretty efficient way to watch time pass.

I want more smiles, and more evenings spent with warm looks and sincere embraces. A kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve, in stark contrast to last year. No more lists. No more deadlines, except for the self-imposed. This has gone on long enough. I’m listening to the younger me, the one who remembered his dreams the next day. The one who lived according to the next wave.

At some point, life is nothing more than a collection of imperfect moments striving to capture perfect frames of mind. We have these times we want to freeze and relive, even when we’re not fully sure what made them worthy in the first place–we never truly get back to that complete frame of mind. Music does a hell of a job helping us remember these moments, even if we use it to sweeten the years.

On a Saturday in late August, I drove to Columbus to see School of Seven Bells, a dream-pop group originally consisting of twin sisters (twins, Basil!) Alejandra and Claudia Deheza and guitarist Benjamin Curtis. I first heard “Half Asleep” at one of my favorite haunts in Pittsburgh years earlier, and I assigned the song to a recurring love I just can’t seem to shake, nor reconcile. I’m a big music fan, and I have been most of my life, (which may seem trite–really, who isn’t?) but this particular song went straight to my Top-20-of-all-Time Status–no small feat. Sadly, the object of my musical affiliation was not available at the time of said concert, but I did travel to see the show with a lovely young woman.

It was my first time in Columbus in years, and the Wexner Center for the Arts was definitely an impressive venue, but this isn’t a music review. Most people are unaware of School of Seven Bells, anyway, so I’ll get to the point. The night was memorable because it afforded that singular moment that is one for which you can usually only hope, from the opening act (a Joy Division-esque brotherly duo whose wall-of-noise shoegaze is still very cool) to the end of the show. Nothing disappointed. Unfortunately, the main act was, by then, Claudia-less, but the remaining founding members knew what everyone wanted, promising the crowd early that the songs they wanted were coming. Concert-goers know that performances are rarely studio-perfect. We really want to feel those songs we’ve never heard live, maybe to see if they move us like they do the dozens of times we play them before then. We buy the ticket, and we wait, and most of the time, we are rewarded. Sometimes, it is more than we thought.

The Wexner Center is a small arthouse venue, and the band walked right through the crowd for their final break, and although I have been fortunate to meet artists before, there was something a little different about the way Deheza and Curtis flowed through the crowd. I was schoolgirl-giddy as they walked past us, less than a foot away. The audience waited patiently for that small eternity that elapses before encores, and when they took the stage the final time, “Half Asleep” began washing over us by an undulating Curtis’ strums. Truly, I didn’t want to be the guy standing there with a phone in my hand, but something deep inside me needed to record at least one part of this–one of my all-time favorite songs being played right in front of me. I had my own motives in doing so, and the song was (and is) intimate for me for more than a few reasons, but that perfect moment lasted for a little more than four minutes, and I still feel it wash over me today.

I watched Alejandra Deheza’s eyes close as she held the microphone with two hands, forgoing her own guitar-work at certain points of the song, as though she had no choice. I was disappointed that her sister had left the band some time earlier, as seeing them harmonize for that song would have surely been the death of me, but it was Curtis’ movements and manipulations that showed how essential he was to the group. He was in a perfect moment, and he shared it with us.

I recorded less than half of the song, and then barely managed to pocket my phone and drown in that gentle wave. I was partly embarrassed to have recorded it at all. In those stretched seconds, time slowed down for all of us, and we did our best to sip it.

Less than a year later, Alejandra announced that Benjamin had been diagnosed with T-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma, but that it was treatable. The band was optimistic. After months of treatment, Curtis died on December 29th of that year. The end of a life is something everyone laments, but I was selfishly sad: I knew that Curtis would never again have the chance to do what he loved. No one would see him put his soul into that guitar. That’s not the point, though. All signs indicate that he felt fortunate to have done what he loved, and from that day on, I started to wonder how many of us take the chance to do the same thing.

Even if you don’t dig it, check out the song, and maybe even the lyrics, if you can spare the time. More than that, think about those moments that you should be freezing.

Those past passions held poorly, though, and you

Became something you Never wanted, could not imagine

Continuing

And the life you could not live

Was eclipsed by greener grass and brighter stars.

Give me gunmetal sunsets after the red fades–

You can keep thumbing the pages of appendices

of miracles that did not happen (never would have happened)

in your catalog for future miseries.

Pause the pondering to watch the rise and fall of the

empire of each day, sick of thinking about you when the

air goes out of the room

And a thousand sleepless Sunday nights

Cripple progress

Autumn arrives on the other end of a tracking shot

offering a wide view of a scene

frosted in amber and highlighted with imperial red.

Peach and bittersweet sunsets darken to mulberry on the horizon,

and the nighttime cool mutes stargazers straining to extend

the dissipating moments from a summer they

neither wanted nor enjoyed.

The rust under everything promises the seasonal death

to which we have all grown accustomed,

but that we still ignore, insisting that eleven weekends from now,

things will be different.

(That they always would have been anyway seems to matter little.)

Watching the top branches of trees sway in the breeze, leaves

stretching in vain towards an indifferent sun, a curious optimism

persists, and I think of how we should share fall,

and how easily we could deviate from what we usually

do. “One of these years,” we promise ourselves, and time

stacks up to challenge us.

The significance of the harvest points to all our tomorrows,

but we measure only in the slightest of divisions.

I can always find my way in memory. The map was in a kiss

forged under autumn stars, and it was meant to be seen

by only two people. We read it alone, silent monarchs tracing their fingers

around an ambient kingdom never meant to end, just expand.

Fourteen years ago, you were splay-footed and tiny,

cavorting around the front yard, barely old enough

to be on your own. You had been fed the wrong kinds of food

for a puppy, and as a result, you had some unpleasant

gastrointestinal difficulties. I applied a salve with an inside-out

sandwich baggie. It was the first time I’d cared for something that young.

You were Amanda’s dog, and it was pretty easy to tell.

I liked watching you two pal around.

It was uncanny, how friendly you were to almost everyone.

You grew to be much larger than I expected, but despite your

lab, chow, and boxer roots, you were gentle.

There may or may not have been a few times that you escaped

the back yard fence with the help of a certain ornery dachshund.

Anyone driving up would see two tails wagging as you both sat

on the front porch, pleased with your escapades.

As the years passed, you were a constant: I knew I’d see you

when I visited Mom and Dad, and I knew that you would swing that

giant otter tail of yours and walk over slowly, as if to say,

“I haven’t seen you in a while, and I’m happy you’re here again.”

I even ended up with a miniature, high-strung version of you, and

as was your custom, you became friends with her, too.

One of the great joys in life was watching you turn back into a puppy

in her company.

I’m not sure what it’s going to be like with just one dog on that porch, or in that yard.

We resign ourselves to knowing that one day we’ll deal with the inevitable,

since the years seem to wear you down so much more quickly than they do

us. There really isn’t a way to prepare to say goodbye, though. There probably

never will be. It’s one of the great sadnesses in life, losing a friend like you.

So here are a few meager words in your honor.

Thank you for the joy you brought to our family. Thank you for the times you

listened to tears and gave hugs. Thank you for the heavy thump of your tail, and the

insistent way you poked your head into our laps. Thank you for walking with us, even

as you got older and your legs sometimes gave out inexplicably.

(We didn’t expect that either, and pretending that you slipped worked better for me too.)

Thank you for being such a kind spirit, and for blessing our lives for such a long time.

Three decades in,

I finally grasped a few truths

you’d think I would’ve gathered

long ago.

In some relationships, we spend

a few lifetimes doing things we don’t

want to do, for reasons we can’t

understand.

Then, if we’re lucky, we meet someone with whom

we can just be, and all others are rendered

obsolete. It’s been my experience that few of us do this.

When we forget our former expectations,

we find ourselves in such amazing company.

In our careers, we find that what we’re doing

doesn’t define us–who we are–as people.

It doesn’t mean we’re unhappy in our current positions,

but it does mean that we are free to change direction.

We sometimes forget that.

What was once labeled a mid-life crisis, then, could be

just a chance to evolve.

In our own lives, we forget that being selfish

isn’t really a bad thing. If we don’t explore

and challenge ourselves honestly,

how can we truly complement someone else

(if that is what we want)?

I made a list of things I wanted to do when I was young,

and I started doing them. They weren’t things I planned

on doing with someone else–they were just for me.

This is all a work in progress.

Results aren’t guaranteed, but then again, what is?

I think we all should all remember this:

the Way We’ve Gone isn’t necessarily

the Way We’re Going.

Summer unofficially ended today.

I never thought I could watch the stars again,

but a funny thing happened on my way

through the seasons.

I stopped thinking about you. It was hard.

It still will be a process, I’m sure.

You were wonderful, and I will miss you

for a long time. We were in love.

Until we weren’t.

There were too many days when I wondered

how such a winter fell over us.

Everybody wants a new start. None of us

know how to begin again. Until we do.

One of these years, I will remember

that each day lives or dies the way

we build it.

So, here is my wish for everyone:

feel the sun lift you and the day carry you.

Laugh because you can, and love the knowledge

that happiness is contagious.

Let the moon calm you and fill you with wonder.

Rinse. Repeat.

We only have so much time.

Let’s spend it in awe of ourselves

and each other.

Every Day is a Gift

is a sign we should hang above our beds

or doors to see it as we come and go.

Sometimes we can remember it on our own, but

the constant knowledge of what really is happiness

(and how we can have as much of it as we want)

is something worth pursuing. Maybe the biggest thing.

Most days start and end unremarkably

in terms of events, but there was no guarantee

that we would be amazed beyond the reach of our

hearts and minds in the first place. 

We cannot wait for life to happen.

And so, our State of Mind is the space we realize,

and where we engineer our paths.

Heart rides shotgun,

and controls the radio.

When that song plays and the rush comes over us,

the real build begins. It can happen any moment, or every day.

We need playlists, not maps.

Your melody is the sunrise for which I have waited.