My sons used Christmas money to explore our favorite comic shop today. I remembered how I discovered the Hero’s Journey in a similar place, feeding my imagination for what one person could accomplish with the proper will.
We came home with piles of adventures and closed the day with a viewing of Avengers: Endgame.
The heroes who had survived cataclysmic defeat are the archetypes of grief. Captain America remains the eternal optimist, the unshakable hero who can only believe that good will come. Hawkeye gives in to darkest resentment, taking out his pain on the reality that has betrayed him. Black Widow works and works and works, she works herself to death fighting against the tragedy. Iron Man escapes from the past into his new reality, he discovers what he had before he lost so much. Thor escapes into self medication and pity, drinking himself into solitude.
Each of these archetypes has lived in me at times, but there is one character that I most aspire to personify. Bruce Banner turned inward, he stopped fighting the monster inside. He spent time with the Hulk. He learned about it. He learned about his darkest parts. In doing so he integrated his most destructive power with a mind focused on the good.
Holidays are where I notice the biggest changes in our lives.
The house isn’t as colorful as it has been in the past and it isn’t filled with wonderful smells of food made with loving care.
But it is so peaceful. Christmas music plays while my boys quietly build their Lego sets and I lay back in bed, taking time for myself. They were excited for the most modest gifts. I feel like I know them better than ever, that our loss and struggles have brought us closer together.
Last night my son wrote these words and enthusiastically read them in front of strangers and library friends. Instant tears, but I held back the flood. The prompt had been to write three things on a blindly-chosen color sample: A wish, a secret, and what you are most grateful for. After so many mistakes, lost tempers, and raised voices, it amazes me that I’m raising strong and compassionate creatures who lift me up as often as I do it for them.
For my own part, the secret was a real challenge. I’ve shared so much of myself publicly and with friends that I knew I wanted to take this moment to dig a little deeper. Sharing with strangers can be easy, but I was self-conscious as some of the participants knew me from library visits.
“I’m lonelier than I let on.” It was how I felt. It’s not always how I feel. In my efforts to be more present I’ve given myself more space to feel. Sitting here typing I’m entirely at peace, the sun is above the horizon and lighting my kitchen beautifully, the old fridge hums its cranky song, birds sing gently, and I’m happy with no one around at all. Soon, my boys will be up and everything will change. I will change with it and let go of this perfect moment.
Last night was another perfect moment. Saliym Malik of Brevity Bookspace led a poetry workshop introducing Brandywine Hundred Library patrons to Kwansaba, an African-American form of praise poetry. Seven lines, seven words per line, and 1-7 letters per word on a subject you wish to raise up in love.
Unschooling all the way, we had only planned to check out a couple books, but my elder son was drawn by Saliym’s Pied Piper routine into the program. I awkwardly caught up as the group was meditating their way into a creative mind space. My younger confidently trailed unawares with an open graphic novel as his only concern.
Saliym’s energy quietly and quickly drew all of us into his guidance. What followed was beautiful. I found a warm ember under long cold assumptions that my poetry writing days were far gone. I was inspired by exposure to this simple form and scratched out a couple poems. Most exciting was doing this alongside my boys as they asked for help with spelling, letter counting, and line breaks. I never needed quiet to write. I ignored countless teachers droning as I scribbled during class, ran back and forth to an open journal at the server’s station while waiting on tables, and sat alone at noisy bars with that same journal when inspiration struck or conversation lacked.
Writer’s block had gripped me before I met my late wife. I don’t know why, but I have hardly tried to write poetry in 15 years. I promised Mary a poem. I hand wrote her love letters, apologies, and thank you notes, but never followed through on that poem. I regret that and maybe it’ll be enough to write it now and let go of that regret.
I thought of that when Saliym asked us to write about a person, place, idea, or moment that we cherished. Again, I found myself more in the present than the past, and the thought of condensing a lifetime with Mary into seven lines was too heavy to lift.
I’m sharing my creations below. I’m pleased with how I began to flow as the exercise progressed. I’m pleased to find some of the old music still playing. I’m pleased with how it felt to stand up and read out loud. However, I do wish “treasure” had one less letter.
I love my sons’ poems. The younger is a wild little editor just going for it and the elder runs as deep as a subterranean river.
It feels so good to have poems strewn about the kitchen floor as my sons come looking for breakfast.
April has been good to us.
Have a God blessed day,
Jason
Holidays are where I notice the biggest changes in our lives.
