We have been very lucky in our family, as my wife has a great job that allows her to work from home. On the whole, this works out very well for all parties. The wife plugs away at her job in the home office, and I work where ever there is a space, which most of the time is the couch. The only conflict we run into is when one of us has a deadline, and the other one wants to talk, or be loud, or talk loudly.
But today happened to be one of the days that the wife headed into the office to work.
And I’m alone, but with the dog, but she ignores me, the dog that is, so I am basically alone today.
It’s like sensory overload today; I have too much freedom.
I got all my errands done early in the morning after the wife and kid left, which was good and has now left the late morning and afternoon free for me. But it is also like everything has ground to a halt. With everything possible today (playing my music loud, talking to myself, reading out loud, taking a walk, taking a nap) I’m in a state of stasis. What do I do first?
Funny how yesterday I was pointing out my inability to focus, and today I have been given freedom, and it’s making it harder to focus on what to pursue.
The kid started in middle school this year, and I wrote awhile back about how she is adjusting to having more homework. And it’s going okay. We are still working and adjusting to the change.
One of the issues the kid has with doing her homework, is that she gets bored and her mind wanders. A totally normal reaction for a kid to have when it comes to reading about world history, or having to write a paragraph on the three different states of matter. What we are trying is the twenty minutes of work, and five minutes of break time. Back and forth until the home work is done. Seems to be working.
The funny thing that I discovered about myself is that I can’t sit down and work anymore. Good lord do I get distracted easily. Like really easily. See, I have been trying to work on this blog for thirty minutes now, but I keep on thinking of something else I need to do – which I have to go and do so I don’t forget.
Sure, I know that there are some of you out there that would call that procrastinating, and you might be right.
But what I feel myself experiencing is a lack of focus. Like, I sit down and I write a sentence, and then I start to wonder about… well, anything and everything. I kind’a find myself going to Wikipedia and just reading page after page about weird stuff. Or seeing if L.L Bean is selling any sweaters at a discount.
I feel that I have lost the skill of being able to sit down and focus for even twenty minutes.
I could blame my phone, and that would be accurate. Yet, don’t I have to take a little responsibility here? If I have a lack of focus, then I am the one who created this problem, right?
I didn’t sleep well last night, so I know that’s the main reason, but man, my head hurts. On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being barely there and 10 being the worst pain imaginable, I would say I am at a 2. But the pain in behind my left eye, going up the left side of my head and ending at the back of my skull. Usually, when I get pain behind an eye, that is the red flag of a migraine. But like I said, the pain is low and that leads me to believe that this will become a dreaded migraine. In fact, it’s been years since I had one. I used to get migraines a handful of times a year, while normal headaches would happen at least once a week. You might find this hard to believe, but this would happen to me back when I was working a normal 9 to 5 job. I think it had everything to do with stress, and now I don’t live as stressful of a life, but there are still stresses.
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You know who loves soup? Me and my wife. You know who hates soup? My kid. You know who is willing to try any food you put in front of them, except soup? That is also my kid. I find this so confusing about her. I’ve asked her often, what is it about soup that you hate? And she just says, I don’t like soup? But she likes ramen. She loves when we make a Japanese hotpot at home. She loves getting pho. But soup. Even a normal basic chicken noodle soup, she hates. And this hatred for soup has been growing. The kid won’t touch a stew, or gumbo. My friend made a really great gazpacho the other day, and she refused to try it. The wife and I are getting a little worried as we are getting closer to Autumn, and we have soup plans. (And I realize how funny and odd that last sentence was.) There’s a clam chowder I want to make, and the wife has her eye on a couple of different French stews that she wants to try. We both found a mushroom soup recipe that we want to try, and I found a video of a Japanese vegetable soup that think would be perfect for a cool Fall lunch. I mean, we are going to move forward with the soup plans, I just really don’t want to leave the kid behind, nor turn her off to the idea of soup for the rest of her life. You know, like how people who ate too much canned tuna as a kid can never have anything with tuna in it, no matter how well prepared it is. I don’t want that to happen to the kid. But… soup. SOUP!
I had a humanities teacher in high school who explained existentialism to my class this way; “We are all free to make choices in our life. Nothing is determined. You can choose to be whoever you want. Being able to choose doesn’t always mean you will be happier.” At least that’s the notes I took in my first journal way back in 1995. I went back to this journal after I finished reading Miriam Toews’ story “Something Has Come to Light,” because not only did the story make me think about choices I’ve made, but also about living with those choices.
To sum this story up, perhaps a bit too simply: A grandmother has written a note/story for her grandchildren about a moment in her life where she should have said yes, but said no to the neighbor boy, Roland. Some years later the boy moves away, but dies, and his parents bury an urn that contain his ashes on their property. Sometime even later, after the parents on the neighboring property pass away and their land is to be sold, the grandmother sneaks onto the property at night, digs up the urn, and reburies it on her property. Every day, the grandmother has passed by the buried urn, and tells Roland she should have said yes. The letter/story ends with the grandmother asking the grandchild to dig up the urn and return it to Roland’s surviving sister, or if that’s too much to ask, leave him, and continue to tell him that grandma made a mistake and should have said yes.
I loved this story. And I loved how this story snuck up on me, how it placed itself in my head, and kept poking at me, telling me to enjoy it more. The language here is simple and to the point, which is what you would expect from a woman that has lived a simple but contented life. The way it was written reminded me of how the Midwestern women in my family spoke – there was a plainness to it, but that didn’t mean that the words didn’t have nuance and revelatory meaning to them. The grandmother is a woman who doesn’t complain, but also is tough and doesn’t put up with much either, yet will never be rude about it.
The story really is about Roland, and the affect he had on her life. Though the two of them weren’t close, according to the grandmother, you can tell that she had a deep appreciation for him. Roland was different from the other people in town. His great sin appears to be that he sat on the front row at concerts, had a gift for the piano as demonstrated with a concert he put on in town and which the grandmother saved a poster from. Then one day Roland rode up to the grandmother and asked if she wanted a ride, which she answered no. A decision she would regret as Roland moved away to England. The town never forgave him for leaving, and I sense that the grandmother never spoke up or out in Roland’s defense, but she lived with that regret. A regret that would possess her to the point that not only did she need to apologize to Roland for the rest of her life, but also to possess Roland for the remainder of her life.
What I find captivating about this story is that it isn’t necessarily a romantic bond between the grandmother and Roland. Though I think there is a tinge about, like a frosting, but it’s not the driving motivation. What I believe the story is telling me is that the grandmother is mourning the exact moment where her life could have gone in a different direction. That she could have been, or done, something different. But, and this is most important, she does not regret her life. I say this because the start of the story, the grandmother explains that she keeps all the pictures of her grandchildren in a photo album next to her bed; how she looks at them, most nights. This is the act of a woman appreciating the life she lived, and what her and her husband created in this world.
What I find Miriam Toews is asking me with “Something Has Come to Light” is can it be possible to love the life you led, but also mourn the moment when it could have gone in a different direction? Can you love a person who could have been your agent of change, while also not wanting to change? Can a paradox like this exist in a contented person?
Perhaps. Perhaps the grandmother never wanted to let go of that chance encounter, to say she was sorry to the one person who wasn’t like anyone else she ever knew. Ultimately, the grandmother made her choice, and she learned to live with it, and with regret at the same time.
I mean, I know it’s referring to a disco floor, but “disco round” is still a weird term.
Though the song came out in 1978, when I hear it, it makes me think of getting ready for elementray school in the early 80’s. My mom would play the “top 40” radio in the kitchen as she got all of us ready for school. And for whatever reason this song played one morning as I ate Frankenberry cereal, and became lodged in my memory.
