Memories washed away

I open the dishwasher as the kids are eating breakfast. We had people over for dinner the night before, and it is filled with dishes that are now clean. I start to unpack, first the bowls, and then the plates.

I pick up one of the plates and notice that it is a different shape to the others. I look at it, and a moment of familiarity rushes back to me. I have pulled this plate out of the dishwasher before. I have had this feeling of confusion and dread before. This plate was not always blank.

My son had once drawn a picture on this plate. Twice now. And twice it has been efficiently washed off by the dishwasher. It was the plate he drew on as one of the last things he did at kindergarten. Both times he drew a picture of all four members of his family, who now live across two houses.

I am devastated. The first time it was me that put the plate in the dishwasher. The second it was a well-meaning guest who somehow used the plate and put it into the dishwasher without me being aware.

I am devastated because today is mother's day, and day of remembering the family. I am devastated because the plate represented a memory my son has of a family together, a picture he said he would like us to put on the wall when we are all living together again.

I shed some tears, and wonder whether to tell him about it. I decided that it is better that he knows. Even if he is deeply disappointed, it is a good thing for him to feel, and I can apologise for my carelessness. 

I tell him. He seems to only vaguely remember it, and to care that it is gone even less.

I wonder then about losing that picture, and why it affected my so much and him so little. Perhaps it is because he is able to feel what he feels in the moment, and then move on to deal with the next moment without nostalgia. I seem to be still processing my grief, and my son's picture a trigger for nostalgia and a reminder of what is lost.

Writing Fling #5: Essence of coffee; diluted by tears

Fifth instalment in a writing experiment from 2015.

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I cry. Into my coffee cup. Almost empty now. Cafe almost empty now. I sit. Alone. Almost depleted now. Almost exhausted now.

Essence of coffee; diluted by tears.

Bitter. Invigorating. Annoying and artificial in its invigoration. Temporary relief. Temporary mask of feelings. Tears bring reality. Tears bring their own relief. Natural relief. Healing relief.

Moving into and towards the pain, uncertainty and fear. Moving there because of it. Because of what it is showing, indicating, highlighting. It is saying, 'This is the thing to explore. Don't mask it. Don't deny it. Sit with. Feel. Feel. Feel. Explore. Understand.'

It may take years, and then the smallest sentence in the smallest conversation may unlock the truth. The truth you have allowed yourself to explore more each day through going through the pain.

Head bowed. Hands on forehead. It is time to go. 

Essence of coffee; diluted by tears.

I drink it. Salty and bitter. Coffee should not be sweet, should not be easy to drink. Tears should not be sweet, easy to cry.

I pick up the newspaper, pay for my stay, and head out onto the street. It is cold, and raining, as a cliche would anticipate.

I put my cap on. Not sure what to do next I walk to the left. Slowly, without purpose.

I find a seat near a grassy reserve. The sun is coming out and the rain is stopping. I lower my hat over my eyes and turn my face to the warming sun. It feels nourishing. I may end up being okay. I may live again. I may love again. 

I feel wet from the rain and warm from the sun. I still have a legacy. My experience will not leave me. It will be transformed over time. Renewed. Reinterpreted.

I see some of me in him

There is something about my eldest. It is like I somehow grieve my childhood when I think about his. And it is like I can sense his pain and confusion, as if I am seeing my own at his age.

I don't fully understand it yet, but I think it is more about me than him. I think that he is probably doing okay, going through the normal childhood stuff, with a little extra (like having to navigate two homes) thrown in. There is nothing in his behaviour that I am overly concerned about.

It is in the moments when we part ways that I feel this grief most acutely. Perhaps I am feeling the grief of my own recent loss of intimacy and connection when we part ways. Perhaps I am feeling the lack of deep connection I felt with my own parents as a kid. Perhaps I am grieving that he is eventually going to feel his own deep pain and loss, as is the course of life.

The part I do know is that it hurts, and gets me pondering how much I long for, and how difficult it seems, to have intimate connection with another human being.

A Future Christmas Letter to My Son

Son,

I am writing this to you for you to read one day when you are older. When you have the ability to process what a six year struggles to comprehend, when his dad can't spend the entire day of Christmas with him.

It maybe when you are 12, 16 or 30. I am not sure. I write it to you now, on Christmas day 2015, while the feelings are still fresh with me.

We did get to spend so much time together today, and last night, even though it was your mum's week to have you. It has been so good to unwrap presents with you, build lego, and see what Santa left you at mumma's house.

You asked me as we were packing up to leave Christmas lunch if I could come back to mumma's house and build some more lego. I know you can't understand why I can't come over, and I really don't have a good way of explaining it to you. It made you so sad when I said no. You cried and I could see I was breaking your heart.

What I do want you to know though is that I miss you so much. That I am crying as I type this. That I will be spending Christmas night alone and lonely, wishing I could be building lego with you. My heart is breaking too.

It may not seem like it when we part. I try to put on a brave face. But it tears me apart when we leave each other. It feels like something is being torn away from my guts.

I love you. So much. Our family in two parts is not your fault, and yet it impacts you daily. You are tender hearted. And funny. And beautiful. Although I am away from you sometimes, you are always close to my thoughts and in my heart.

Through all this I am doing my best to be your dad; present with you through all the moments; helping you learn and be curious about this strange thing called existence. Sometimes it can hurt more than you can imagine. And sometimes there is uncontainable joy.

Disjointed commitment

I have made a commitment to myself to write a blog post every day until further notice. Today that means I am struggling for a topic I consider worthy of writing about. That is not to say I have not had anything interesting happening in the past 24 hours. There has been plenty.

For example, I have felt like my exercise in trying to develop a new food product is destined to be too hard and expensive. I have felt like my new life as a single, part-time dad who is trying to live with meaning and purpose is unrealistic and naive. And then for all those feelings to reverse again, and me thinking that just maybe those things I yearn for and feel in my guts are possible.

As I meditated last night I wept. Grief is catching up with me today.

I will continue in my commitment to write a blog post every day, even if it is disjointed and lacking in profound truth.