Something Revered
Birdy, Boyd, and BigBirdy-BigBoyd @ Tyrol Basin Wisconsin early 2008
Almost three years ago, I began writing an exposé of my life, notating both the beautiful bright, alongside the dark, dark, dark. Here I bare a simple share…a shared excerpt from my book that concludes printing this week. Pulled from chapter three, I Am NOT Writing a Fucking Book, included are pages 134 through 138. Chapter three explains to my children why I am writing this book, and why now.
Referencing my words upcoming, one thing to clarify in advance. My father the Father who died over a dozen years ago, I lovingly refer to him as BigBird. My daughter Lauren and others, they call her Birdy, and therefore I refer to myself in the light of my daughter, as BigBirdy. My son Travis and those in his comp sci gaming circle, they birdsong him Boyd, so I nametag myself BigBoyd, regarding my son.
My book is this bird’s tale, as told to my children…nothing more the raw truth of my life.
Truth…an interesting proposition.
Truth…so easy to practice, but so gosh-darn-hard to do.
Truth…a misaligned orientation that I myself wrangled with, for a long time.
To me and for me…I am nothing, I am no one, if not truthful.
If not truthful, I know not myself.
If not truthful, I do not allow others to experience me, as I correctly am.
If not allowing others to embrace the veritable me, then I am fake, then I am a serpent…untrustworthy, and one to be avoided…an in-fact snake in the grass, by my measure.
My appreciation for you all in my life is a condition beyond my ability to describe. Thank you for being here, because you here helps me too, helps me very-very much. I now relinquish my written voice, allowing the narrated words of my life to command this here blog post. Love you all.
~ Bird out.
Something Revered
My leading life lessons eventuate out of my missed steps, my slipped footings…what might otherwise be called, mistakes.
My lessons learned proper they leave a mark, a memento, a scar…something revered…the easy stuff does not.
The non-challenging is invisible…not recognized recalled nor memorized.
Why This…Why Now?
Once the calendar page turned away from January and onto the new crisp sheet titled February 2020, I pushed my imaginary wooden coins…my chips…into the middle of the poker table of my own life’s journey. Casting aside traditional efforts of making money to pay bills and laboring over necessary home improvements, I instead chose to sit for the rest of the zany 2020 and beyond, playing my hand with this here your book. Ok but why…why this? Why did I finally pick up the pen after arguing over top of Coach Sarah’s insistence? Good question. Similar to other times past, the lens I held upon myself and upon my world was foggy, scratched, and not entirely in focus, so I borrowed a different one and spied a new path, thanks to Coach Sarah.
I sit here now more than two years later…after picking up two superfluous crippling concussions by the way…whatever no better…inching closer and closer to the only thing that would slightly make it onto an imaginary bucket list, if for goodness sake there ever existed such a silly thing. Yes, this the same thing, this the one singular thing I am going all-in on, my long rambling note to you, my life’s work, everything I have and everything I have to give to you both…my magnum opus. Not once have I penned or maintained a bucket list…meh…no and rather, I go out upon the world living 24 hours at a time.
For decades, the totality of my held-focus was limited to only today, nothing more, nothing. Up until the time of lights out, my sum vision was on this here single planetary rotation, then starting anew next time around the sun…only if and when such occurrence comes. So far, one more day has kept coming. Barely do I dare place myself forward…not assuming to see a precious sun nametagged tomorrow…not considering the afforded opportunity to loungingly look back on yet another yesterday. Maybe no other todays follow this one and that’s perfectly ok…I fucking know better…I hold no Godlike controls…I will do what I can with this here time.
Upon each…surprise!...morning’s awakening, I make tweaks and hard adjustments on the fly. I defer not anything categorized as critical past pillow-time tonight. If I coast, if I glide, I might omit something important and no fucking way I’m doing that shit. At the end of yet one more days’ time…as I begin to crush some pillows, I might do an audit…that was ok, that was an ok day…even if shitty, it was the best MathTest I could have done, hah…because now the do-over chance gone. As available opportunities…which includes time…become more precious to me, I choose my efforts more carefully these days.
I am void of any clear and present illness threatening me currently. Still, I feel a supreme sense of urgency to complete this one thing before my functional health gets away from me. Even if I do nothing but this one singular act with the years or days or hours or minutes I have left in my life, I will look back on a glorious tale of living and smile delightfully.
If ever were there a singular effort of where to best put all of my chips, this one wins…your book…hands-down.
BigBird died in September 2008 after battling heart disease and a multiplicity of internal dilemmas, due to incessant cigarette indulgence. Yes I was mad at him for smoking, and told him so directly. Factually I angrily blame-chirped out loud…he himself was stealing the opportunity away from you two his grandbirds, for you to know and love their GrandBigBird. My pops constructed his 18-page letter in 1983, telling me stories of how our lives unfolded before I was born or old enough to remember. My littlest sister Christy found the letter and mailed it to me, after BigBird died. I read his note only once, then I put that shit away. The pain bled through BigBird’s written words was extensively horrific, by my measure. His words shocked me, comforted me, awhile hurt me. I cared no-way-not to review it then-twice anytime soon, hah…on some level, I regretted reading it once.
With nagging suspicion as I amassed my own story-share papers, barely could I recall some of BigBird’s words. So, I did it…I went back and reread my father’s note. Although emotionally painful, it proved a powerfully positive exercise to experience. Odd and new-found feelings sprouted from the pages to decipher, since my eyes last searched for answers within his cursive characters years before. The acclaimed letter catalogs how my parents met, and how they became married with four bird babies hatched seven years apart. He adds how my mother’s poor mental health then took her away from us, forever. My father’s articulated feelings account his emotional roller coaster of sadness then faith then more sadness, as my mother went in then out then finally in for good, of the mental health institutions.
Eighteen pages describing the unknown was not enough to satisfy me. My alternatives to learn more of the stories from my childhood are extremely limited, and fading fast. Open still is what I will never know, ever. I feel gifted with the treasure of my father’s written words, yet I hungered for more, much more. I believe such details help me know myself and learn my truth, by my own proprietary custom-calibrated measure.
The saying…You never step in the same river twice…is a damn powerful truth, written thousands of years ago by the Turkish philosopher Heraclitus.
The original saying is longer and goes on to mention…because it is not the same river, and you are not the same person. I lived to learn know and believe that nothing stays the same, and even if in its same old appearance, everything ages, which alters them different, aka time changes every little thing. Minute by minute I change, regardless of my hope or desire to control such stagnation.
Since changing day by day, I intend and attempt to move in a more purposeful direction…least here I try.
I hope this work serves you, and serves you well. If not, maybe this here your book makes for a memorable family heirloom drink coaster, or hell…a definitive spider smasher. I am using all my chips, committing all I know, and scribing many the notable details of my life thus far…now continuing the tradition, leaving these charactered sentences to you my children like my beloved BigBird did for me…just so you know.
I did not have the connection with my father I hoped for. In a few not-so-emotional ways, I miss the chance I lost.
Not trying to necessarily make up for that, I want to lead with my heart and do what I believe to be right by my measure, ah and yeah…do it right fricking now. My intent is to not leave you with unanswered questions or perhaps left-out insightful detail. If my father wrote me a 3,000-page rambling note not his 18 sheets, I would have read all of them by now, at least once and maybe fucking thrice. I believe my entire being prospers greatly from BigBird’s masterpiece, brief as it is…total truth.
I try to do shit excellently, intently, with purpose, you know…go all the way, to the furthest extent of my ability and willingness, because along comes…perhaps not another chance. If not done with excellence, is such a thing even worth doing? IDK…I might argue not. I will not always hold what I possess now, yes echo…things will change. Jobs, homes, loves and friendships will come and go. The impermanence is absolutely fascinating when considered deeply by this here bird’s brain. With a limited humanoid battery life, one day my heart will expire and pump its last pump. How can I best treasure the present joys and benefits of life, deeply and passionately as I can bare, and with the maximum humility I possess?
My biggest guilt is reasonably my hurriedness, my concentrated lack of awareness and attentiveness to the whole and simple beauties of life.
Ah, to smile so wide my face hurts as the butterfly plays peek-a-boo…laughing til my chest pains at the exuberant puppy romping around with the senior curmudgeoned big dog…dropping tears and falling to my knees afoot the flawless wonder of a northern summer sunset.
One day, the magical giving light will fall upon my cheeks for the last time, then conceivably, my only desire is for a slight spare moment with you both.
Alas, I care not to regret. I care not to want for any undoing’s. I care to rest soundly that I did what I could, alongside my best try, and engrossed by my maximum best effort, whilst afforded the chanced minutes.
