Lengthen Your Stride

I have been writing this blog on and off for more than ten years.  This year I committed myself to making writing a priority. My writing is a way to force myself to ponder, to challenge myself and to live out my desire to evolve as a human being and reach ever so timidly for the One who created me.  I am really only writing for myself and you, those few who find yourself in my musings, you are my accountability.  For words spoken to oneself create nothing.  Words spoken to others create our world.  God spoke the world into existence in Genesis and dozens of other creation stories.  And so I am attempting to speak into life a different reality, a different me.

You might wonder, why now?  Why commit to writing now?  Let me take a moment and write more for you than for me and explain.

On September 25^th I suffered a stroke.  It was at the base of my brain stem, in the cerebellum.  My neurologist described the cerebellum as Grand Central Station for our mind-body connection.  Every nerve and function in our body flows through this part of the brain.  And I had five small explosions there, leaving me blind in my right field of vision and numb on the left side from the top of my head to my toes.  I was lucky: strokes in this part of the brain can be major explosions.  Those are the ones that leave the patient locked in: fully aware but unable to move anything but their eyes.

So, though the stroke was mild the complications were serious.  Where we have two large arteries feeding blood to the back of the brain.  I was born with one.  And this lonely highway of life giving blood had developed a plaque and a clot right at the point where those that artery, the vertebral artery, meet the basilar artery, the main artery into the brain.  The usual simple procedures weren’t an option due to my being born with only one of two vertebral arteries.  And thus I found myself being airlifted less than ten miles from Emory St. Joseph’s to the Stroke Clinic at Emory University.  I spent a week in the ICU, my body being flooded with Heparin to gently loosen the clot without causing any further strokes.

Fast forward.  Within a few weeks I recovered full eyesight.  Over the course of a few months I recovered my balance, my strength and my agility with the help of some phenomenal physical and occupational therapists. Over the holidays I began to recover my sense of balance emotionally as I spent time differently than I have with my family and friends. 

But the whole experience had stripped me bare.  I felt vulnerable in ways that I had never felt before.  I had my first real glimpse at my own mortality.  For the first time truly understood how much I am loved by my family.  And I ultimately had to face the fact that I was not centered spiritually and that true joy in the third chapter of my life was going to come from finding that connection.  And writing is a huge part of how I am wired.

I’ll end this post on a cold, rainy Atlanta winter morning.  I was tempted to get on the stationary bike but Birdie gave me the look only a Springer can and I suddenly remembered that I grew up in Seattle.  We went for our usual 3.5 mile run, just like we had the morning of the stroke.

As we hit the half-mile point Birdie gave me a look that said, “this is colder than I anticipated and I think I regret my decision.”  Rather than pulling me along with her poorly functioning adenoids causing her to heave breaths like the Tasmanian Devil on those Looney Tune cartoons, she was trailing slightly behind me.  I was surprised by the cold as well.

So I made a decision to get this over as quickly as we could.  I lengthened my stride and ran like I hadn’t before the stroke.  We ran those hills at pace and Birdie had to at points actually run rather than trot (and if you know Springers you’ll know how rare that is).  First the in months I was running rather than jogging.  I was lengthening my stride rather than limping through he motions.

And that has been my choice for this year.  To lengthen my stride.  To hit the road not just in spite of but because of the cold and rain.  Lengthen my stride in my career, in my writing, in my life.  And most importantly, lengthen my stride toward God.

Which leads me to ask: how are you lengthening your stride this year?  Is it with your family?  Or your job?  Or your physical health?  There are no answers too small or big to the question.  The important thing is just to choose.  And lengthen your stride.

Interruptions

Life occurs

in the interruptions

Lazy Saturday

watching a show in bed

Girls run in, jump and scream

“Hey, I’m watching this!”

And life moves forward,

leaving me behind.

Life occurs

in the interruptions

Busy writing a report due

He wheels in

with yet another

Quiz show question,

smart phone in hand,

“Why don’t you

look it up on your phone?”

And life moves forward,

leaving me behind.

Life occurs in the interruptions

Television on as I cook dinner,

She enters the door and

puts down her purse

“How was your day?”

She asks in the middle

Of the news of the day and I say ,

“Fine”

And life moves forward,

leaving me behind.

My life occurs in the interruptions

God comes to us disguised as one

Will I be present or will

Life move forward without me?

The Road Shortens

The road shortens with the passage of time.

The anticipation that lengthens the drive on the way

to the destination is shortened

on the return.

The looking forward to

is much longer than the looking back

In the back of the Country Squire

looking at the road, at the cars behind

my brother’s breath on the glass.

"HELP WE'RE BEING KIDNAPPED"

And I laugh as the drivers following

smirk, if worriedly, at the two

crew-cut near-twins giggling.

As the smirking drivers each passed on the left

We were but two or three miles of one hundred and sixty.

The trip dragged on,

"Are we there yet?"

Nerves were fraying, for there were cousins long unseen, 
games to be played, sisters yet to torment.

"When are we stopping to eat?"
"He's cheating at Slug Bug, my arm hurts!"  

"He's sitting to close!"

Blessed arrival cannot come too soon.

In the back of the Country Squire

Two toe-headed near-twins sleep

most of the way.

Three hours that felt like three days now pass

in three minutes.

I am as close to eighty as I am to thirty-two.

It feels like it’s been a much longer

journey getting here than it will be

getting there
I have much to do
I best not sleep through the journey.

Houston, We Might Have A Problem

Launching a space craft is difficult.  I woke Sunday morning to the news that SpaceX had successfully launched the first human rated capsule into orbit.  It was a mighty fete for SpaceX.  It only took them 17 years.

It caused me to think about a mission that launched on January 16th, 2003, the mission of STS-107 on the Space Shuttle Columbia.  At launch the team at Johnson Space Center noticed a piece of foam insulation fell off of the solid fuel booster rockets and hit the shuttle on the forward part of the left wing, potentially damaging one of the heat shield tiles. 

The crew on the ground studied photos of the launch, trying to decide if a risky, unplanned space walk to inspect the damage was necessary.  Without getting into the specifics of the controversy around the decision making mistakes uncovered in the aftermath, suffice it to say the spacewalk and inspection didn't occur and the Space Shuttle Columbia, tragically and some say unnecessarily, disintegrated on re-entry.

Launching a child is also difficult.  Unfastening where we end and they begin becomes less theoretical and much more clear as they choose colleges, solidify their sense of self and find their people outside the house.  For some the difficulty centers around letting the child go: discover who they are beyond us, find their people beyond ours and become fully separate beings, creating an independent future.

For parents of a disabled child, the difficulty centers around quite the opposite: how do I help my child discover who they are?  How do I help them find their own people?  How do I help them become fully separate beings, creating their independent future?

Or, can they launch?  Like mission control at NASA, we wonder if we should we abort this current mission as it looks like it might be headed for disaster.  We managed to check the O rings for wear, but at launch off to college a piece of foam hit the heat shield.  Do we continue the mission or launch a rescue mission back to campus to bring the crew down safely?

So my wife, my partner of nearly 30 years...we sit, we debate, we argue and we worry.  Will we make better decisions than they made in 2003?

Like Adam

As I find my voice, I do not aim to be loud as I once did in my youth.  Loud means powerful to the immature.  Loud draws attention for the boy.  The attention that the father never gave.  "I would rather be hated than ignored."

I want to be heard.  But first I must believe I have something to say.  Because as I have become less loud with age, it has not been because I have matured or become wiser.  It has been because I woke one day and found myself unclothed in the middle of the street--as if in a dream.  And the last thing that the naked man should do in public is raise his voice lest he draw attention to himself.

No, he should be as quiet as possible as he seeks somewhere to hide his nakedness.  Like Adam.

Dear Dad

I grew up the child of what I now understand was a very difficult divorce which was the result of a very difficult marriage.  One of the consequences of both was that after the age of six or so I spent, at most, two days a year with my father: Christmas and my birthday.  And on my birthday it was usually the result of me making a phone call to remind my father it was indeed my birthday coming around the corner and could we spend time together.

As I reached my early twenties I was angry.  Angry at him, angry at the childhood I was denied, angry I missed the relationship most had with their dads.  I was left with a father.  So I wrote a letter.  It was....angry.  My father didn't respond until a few months later.  He sent me a plane ticket Milwaukee where he, my stepmother and his newborn daughter were living.

On the second night of my stay he said, "let's go get a beer."  We drove to a classic Milwaukee neighborhood watering hole and ordered two drafts of their finest.  And he said something that our relationship and only later in life did understand, had changed me.  "Sean, I know I wasn't there for you as a kid.  And I know as a result I've lost the right to be your dad.  But I really like  you, respect you and love you.  I would like you to be in my life and to be in yours.  And although I know I can't be your dad I can be your friend.  Somebody that's seen things you will see, made mistakes you might make and maybe help you avoid them."

That was his offer.  And I took him up on it.  What followed has been 30 years of friendship, fellowship and love.  His newborn daughter is my full fledged sister and close friend.  My stepmother is the best grandparent my kids have and an invaluable friend, counselor and mentor to my wife and me.  And my dad is one of my closest, dearest friends. 

I don't write letters often.  But I felt compelled to send one to him today. 


5/18/2018

Dad-

Had a dream the other night.  I got lost on my way to an appointment and ended up back home.  My mom was there, concerned and frustrated.  One of the side effects of the pain medication I take (Gabapentin) can be memory loss.  I explained to mom that it was my medication and I was fearful of what I couldn’t remember.

I woke saddened and a bit teary.  As I was meditating later that day I think I decoded the dream.  I was not fearful for myself.  I was fearful for you.  And inside that fear was some selfishness.  I don’t want you to forget me.

I have come to understand in the later part of my 54 years that I was not only born your son, I was born to be your son.  We share similar tastes, similar quirks, similar sensibilities.  All without spending a great deal of time together as I growing up.  I was born to be your son.  That’s why I called you for time together, it’s why I was so disappointed when I didn’t get it and why I found myself so angry as I reached adulthood.

You were generous as I found my way to forgiving your shortcomings with me.  And you have been generous as a friend, a mentor and most importantly…a Dad.

And this is the point of my letter.  I know that you are struggling with your memory.  I know it’s what’s made you maybe a little more quiet when we’re together.  Whether you remember a fact about a politician, or where we went last August or even what we’re doing next is not the most important thing.  And the most important thing is not even remembering that I am your son.

The most important thing is that I don’t want you to forget that you’re my Dad. 

With Love,

Sean

No More Important Meeting

When Griff announced over FaceTime that he wanted to learn to tie a tie I was, in all candor, a little annoyed.  I am attempting to write new positioning pieces for two of our brands and was having a difficult time getting my frame of mind right to write.  95% there and the phone rings.  The temptation was strong to blow him off.

But what can be more important than helping a young man trying to look his best for an interview?  How many 20 year-olds would even think to wear a tie to an interview for a customer service job helping baseball fans find their seats?  Griffin did and so, I think, he deserved my best effort.  Five minutes later we had a tangle of silk resting uncomfortably around his neck.  "Business casual and I'll teach you tonight."

There will be no more important meeting I have today.