Thinking Thing

Trying to get back to writing, I'll pull out a few of the things I wrote last winter. Maybe bringing these things to the front of my mind will help get more words moving. So here's a (kind of)free verse poem, Thinking Thing - (what you see below is something like version 2 or 3 of this poem)

Here's a new idea. (no, there's no such thing)
I'm thinking white on white. (it matches everything)
I don't need to see what I think. (seeing doesn’t make anything)

Do I need to think to think? (is there really such a thing?)
Do my actions make me think? (is thinking making everything?)
Do things outside lead me to think? (without, can there be anything?)

I think that thinking makes me act. (so thinking makes me do a thing)
Can I know what to do, not what to think? (and must I question everything?)
If I can, then doing does not make me think. (and nothing makes me do anything)

Thanksgiving, 2010

Don't you dare ask me how I can be thankful. If I weren't such a nice guy I might have to knock you out. I have spent the last 6 months at the bedside of my son,or working to bring him home. He is currently paralyzed from the neck down by a piece of shrapnel from an IED blast in Iraq.

The blast didn't kill him. Thank you God!
The shrapnel wasn't an inch higher. That would have killed him. Thank you God!
My son did not suffer a brain injury. He is still 100% my son. Thank you God!
He can talk. The doctors said he would never do that. Thank you God!
He can eat. The doctors said he would never do that, either. Thank you God!
He needs the ventilator now less than he did before, and he's working towards not needing it at all. Thank you God!
His eyesight is fine, so he can see us who love him. Thank you God!
His hearing is good. He did suffer some hearing loss in the army but nothing terrible. Thank you God!
His sense of humor is totally intact and we have shared many, many, many great laughs. Thank you God!
He knows his family loves him, and we know he loves us. Thank you God!
Both my children are done with war. Thank you God!
Our needs are being met, not even impinging on my income. Thank you God!
We haven't torn ourselves apart in grief, fear and anger. Thank you God!
God our Father knows us, loves us, and is with us always. Thank you God!

And this is just the short list!!! Don't let me hear you complain. I will smack you.

cardboard, then love

When I try to write, to recount the experience of my family, of my son, my thoughts evaporate. Inside my head, my chest, it feels like brown corrugated cardboard - dry, flat, rigid, empty. You know how it feels when you rub your dry fingertips over dry cardboard? That's how my mind feels.

I know I have to push myself, though. I can't let myself subside. I fear if I do I'll just shut down. And that would be an unnecessary defeat. No, I'll write. I'll find a way to slip my consciousness past the cardboard. I have to find a path that actually carries current, though.

I can say I love. I love my family like the blood flows through my veins. I would be empty, cold and dead without them. My daughter gets where my hugs are coming from. I hug her with all of my heart, and she hugs me back just the same, totally, loving me back, knowing I need to hug her as hard as I can. She is strong of mind and spirit, strong of heart, and strong in her love.

I remember a hug I gave my son. It was the night after his graduation from Army Basic Training and he was being called to formation. These young soldiers would be boarding buses soon to take them to their next phase of training. Minutes before, my family had held hands in the dark under the tall Georgia pine trees and I lead us in a prayer, blessing my son, praying the Lord's protection over him, praying for strength and wisdom for him as he moved forward in his training.

As he was called to that formation, we all hurriedly hugged him. My arms went around him and he, taller than me by several inches, wrapped his football player, soldier arms around me. I remember feeling his strong, hard chest against my middle-aged one. There was no question that an immeasurable love filled both our hearts as we held on to each other for a moment. To this day, years after, I can feel that hug, I can feel that love.

So love opens me up and lets me slip past the cardboard emptiness. My loved ones lead me to the things that I want and need to say. That's how I want it. That's how I like it. My love should lead me.

Maybe for now I won't write looking back. Maybe for now I'll write looking right here, looking forward, looking to God. I'll write towards the opening flow of life moving forward.

A complaint

I want to complain. I want to complain about "Christians" that know full well the tragedy my family has endured, yet they still, as has been their habit all along, walk right by me every day, refusing to make eye contact with me, let alone engage in conversation.

I'm not especially chatty myself for the most part. I don't want an exciting dialogue every time someone walks by. But I have to wonder what is going on behind those eyes that never lock on mine, eyes that have to look over at some indeterminate corner of the room, that have to look at the floor, because heaven knows we have to look at the floor when we walk. Is it fear? If it is, what are they afraid of? Am I frightening? I don't think I am, but I suppose my self assessment could be wrong. It must, by definition, be biased. Still, I look at people. I'm game to connect. Why is that so rarely reciprocated?

And I want to complain about co-workers who also know full well the tragedy my family has suffered, yet they don't make any effort to even ask how I'm doing. Initially this didn't bother me personally, I just thought, "Are they that afraid to reach out?" I don't want pity for me or my family, so that isn't the issue. I just couldn't imagine people being so insensitive, so unable to care.

But as I continued to ponder, amazed, this lack of compassion, it struck me that this absence of reaching must really be evidence of an appalling indifference. These people can't truly, practically, care about me or my family. If I told them that, they would likely take offense and deny it. But the fact says it all. If these people cared, they would not ignore the situation. If they truly cared, there would be some action to prove it.

Again, I don't want pity, and I don't expect people to ask for an update every single day. But I cannot process the fact that many of my co-workers have said NOTHING to me. That is an affront to me and my family. It means that we do not matter to these people, to any degree. That is a slap in my face.

not writing

I want to write more than anything else that I can imagine doing right now. My son has been paralyzed by a piece of shrapnel from an IED. My family has been through the hell and horror of the surgical ICU, our lives wrenched off the paths we had set ourselves on. We have felt the peace of God that truly does pass all understanding. We have seen loved ones and strangers reach out to us with loves so in unison, they must grow from a common foundation most humans are built upon.

For the last two months I have taken notes, brief snippets of thought, attempting to hold on to some of the feelings and events that have redefined my life. And still, the torrent of words and feelings that I expected to wash out of me and over me hasn't materialized. My fingers think they should be spasming across the keys, rushing to keep up with the ideas blazing from my mind in a firestorm of emotion.

Instead, my mind stalls at the keyboard. Tepid non-thoughts lay on my mind, like a folded flannel sheet sitting on a bench in an unoccupied sunlit room in mid-September. Left there for now, that last bit of laundry. The person folding the clothes was called away, unhurriedly. Soft folded edges and a slight weight. No force. No flow. No intent.

I will try to write. Do I will it, or will I find that it happens to me like a seizure? Do I wait? Do I have a choice? I want to write.

I'll try this again

I tried blogging once. I don't think I really had a lot to say. Now there's so much in my head and my heart, I don't know if the words will be able to work their way out. I'll give them the chance to try, though.