honesty

I make a big deal about being honest with myself. I sometimes bandy it about like a self-righteous sword. So let me be honest....about smoking. I've smoked for 38 yrs. In all that time, I've quit for 9 days. My older sister, who I just posted about, died from lung cancer. I've had a heart attack. I was smoking a week later. Want honesty? I lost I relationship with someone because of smoking. Who gives up someone who for a cigarette? I did.
I'm not proud of any of this. Not in any way or form. But its the truth. I promised each of my daughters I would quit. When burying my sister, I made a silent promise to quit. I promised a women I was involved with I would. Through it all I reached for a cigarette. I've tried the patch. Hypnotism. Pills. Cold turkey.Acupuncture. Chantix.
Been there. Done that. Failed every time. I sat and watched my dad waste away to nothing because he couldn't put a cigarette down.
I have no excuses. But I do demand honesty. About myself. Hence, the post.

my sister...

My sister would have been 57 today. Unfortunately, she passed in '90. It's been a long time since that day in October. My day, today, was insanely busy. But she wasn't far from my thoughts. Inwardly, I smiled when I thought of her. I'm not a big fan of "getting over" things. I don't think we do. I think we learn how to "manage" things. And I think the trick is managing whatever it is to a good place within ourselves. But we have to be clear and honest with ourselves. No rationalizations. No excuses. No regrets. In a randomly assorting universe.
I don't have any about her. She taught me sooo much. How to dance with a girl. What the silence between my parents meant. She was my daughter's first nanny. My daughter adored her. When I should call a girl back. She was the one I trusted who could get me to rethink something. I remember one of the last times I saw her. Racked with pain. Injected with strange drugs. She came to visit. She was tiring easy then. My second daughter was a month old. She spent time with us. I talked with her a long time. We just sat on my porch in the fading August sun, and talked. She didn't have answers. I wasn't looking for any. We parted that day, and I knew. But there wasn't anything unresolved between us. She taught me how to dance. And in her final moments, she taught me how to live. Shortly after, she passed. Oct. 12th is gonna be tough.

And moments from now...

I never felt I needed anyone. Throughout all of these 50+ years, I had my own back. Through the various "mes" (as I grew and developed), I wanted to grow to be strong enough not to need anyone. I learned early I couldn't trust the emotional politics of my house. I wasn't adrift. I had my own back. Go on, hit me with it. It might take me years to figure out, but I would. And in the meantime, I kept going, keep thinking, kept wanting to grow. I did. I didn't always like myself, but I knew I was all I had. I learned to be nice to myself in spurts. Those spurts grow to cover longer and longer periods of time. Therapy helped. So did being on my own. My daughters helped. I could just be me when I interacted with them. I realized I did need them. When I had a tough career decision to make, about whether to get into teaching, I realized I needed input from someone. When my dad died, I realized I couldn't handle it alone. When my school opened, I knew it wasn't mine, and I needed help to do the work. What does it all mean? Beats me. I still see myself as the gunslinger Irishman, armed with wit and intelligence and ideas about the work. But I'm no longer alone. Other people have my back.

Moments from long ago...

I use to write poetry. A long long time ago. 35 some odd years ago. Many "mes" ago. I dimly remember those days. I was young. Invincible. The first time I got accepted to grad school (I was in three different programs before I did the Masters) was as a poet. Professors thought I had a "distinctly urban" voice. It's funny how you remember some things. I just remember I would stand at my shared bedroom (there were 4 of us in there for a while before I got moved to the living room couch) window with my pad and try to figure things out. Imitating Frank O'Hara, imagining I was Kerouac, I would write. Poems. One of them adorns the blog.
It's a little bit of a different me from many mes ago.

A Day in Sept.

I haven't really been focused on the blog. School has started and that's been huge. I don't really come up for air till November. The school year brings so many different opportunities and demands so much time that people involved with you just have to understand that one is gonna be preoccupied. Add to that my daughters who are so low maintenance but who I struggle to maintain ties with. So while I've been checking the blog, I really haven't thought about something to post to it. Probably it's a something that happens in a randomly assorting universe.

can you spell....

I have a birthday coming up this week. I don't place too much emphasis on them. When you hit half a hundred and then some, you've kind of adjusted to the idea. I feel the same way about New Years. Been there, seen that. But birthdays should be acknowledged in a kind of reflective way -- as a chance, if one doesn't do it already, to take stock. See if you're living the why and way you think you should. I think I am.
My daughters are amazing and a huge portion of my life. I listen to them and trust their instincts. They are women of substance and I'm kinda glad to be their dad. With everything else, most of which has happened to me after I turned fifty, I feel okay. I trust my instincts. There's someone out there I'll meet.
That's why I don't believe that people can't change. Yes, the universe assorts randomly. But everything good has really happened for me after I turned fifty. If I didn't believe and keep working, refining, striving, examining, I'd be in the same rut I was at 35. But I didn't give up, I believed. And kept working. Growing. And things changed.