Hunting Grounds

March 15, 2016 ~ Henry ~ 7 Comments

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Dear Mackenzie,

In the hour it took me to start writing this, six people have been added to the national waiting list for organ donation. And by the end of today, 22 people on that list will die, having waited too long for what would have been a second chance at a one-chance life. Those numbers, I suppose, aren’t as sobering when considering the lives taken daily by way of car accidents, strokes, heart attacks, or even depression-related deaths.

But there’s something about slowly being chased by death that gives it a certain tinge. Or, at most, I can only pretend to imagine. Like that dream when you’re running from something as fast as you can only to look down to see you’re stuck in the same spot, motionless. In a construed way, dealing secondhand with this hunt provides a sense of wonder and propulsion to life. How often do I consider the wider impact of my daily decisions? The jobs I have, the words I say, the things I buy, the promptings I ignore. And how often do I walk and talk my way through each day, unaware of my tangible connection to all those around me whom I scarcely acknowledge, if at all?

I bought a bottle of water and a pack of gum yesterday and when I lifted my head to take my change from the cashier, I saw your eyes in hers; the left one slightly smaller than the right.

Walking down the street, I overheard a series of laughs from a woman which echoed yours; light and free and above the noise.

And everywhere else I seem to go, I catch glimpses of your cadence or your phrases or long neck or seeping kindness in anyone, everyone I see.

Once braindead, a registered donor’s organs have about a four-hour window of usability. That means we’re most likely living near or among the person whose lungs will soon be yours. At the very least, he or she is most likely less than a three-hour drive away. He or she could be any one of those strangers I witness on a daily basis in whom bits of you sing; the cashier or the laughing lady.

He or she is most likely between the age of 20 and 50 years-old. He or she is most likely a husband and father or a wife and mother. He or she won’t see it coming. He or she will have made no preparations. He or she will most likely be sad to leave a life and loved ones behind. But he or she will hopefully come to know someday that somewhere, maybe a three-hour drive away, is a daughter, sister, niece, cousin and wife of her own who will carry on his or her breath with the added measure of life they’ve gifted her.

And maybe that teaches us another lesson that would probably otherwise pass us by; that we’re more one than we realize. In death is life and in life is death and on and on and on. And composed in every breath we breathe is everything and everyone who once was, now is, and will be. And by standing up and taking part in that eternal round, we etch parts of ourselves in the greater human story, parts of ourselves in the shading trees and woolen caps and crooked smiles of who knows how many. It assures parts of you will remain in the eternal parts of me.

Maybe, in that larger context, there are no seams between a life and another life, aside from the ones we create. Everyone’s in this breathless chase, altogether and all at once. We’re all beggars for one more day; loose in a jungle of vanity and sorrow and pleasure and culture and deadlines. We’re all one string of events and of happenchance and of grand design that leads to something I can’t yet comprehend; a place of no end because there is no beginning. And maybe that’s the point.

Whichever end of this journey we find ourselves, let us not forget the marrow from which we all stem. Let us not find ourselves on the other side of life-or-death whittling away the constant gift of our unnumbered tomorrows. Let us, however, take your new breath and our new life and live the brash way we were intended, giving and doing and loving with dissipated fear and undetectable pride in an endless and seamless round, forgetting our place in the hunt, and drinking in, with furious abandon, the wild, wild air.

Love, H

My Mother’s Keeper

March 1, 2016 ~ Henry ~ 8 Comments

Mothers day One year old

Dear Mackenzie,

I recently read this story. It’s a sad one, about a young couple and their newborn son, born with brain cancer and given only a handful of months to live. The story starts with a scene told by the Mother. Sometime after he was born, her young son wasn’t able to hold down any fluids and became severely dehydrated. He was hospitalized for about the thousandth time, too crippled by pain to stop crying long enough to sleep, and too taxed to take on any added medicine. She rocked her son back and forth and rubbed his chest and added water droplets to his lips and bathed him in warm water but nothing seemed to soothe him. He simply cried. And when his voice was dry and hollow and barely audible over his wincing face, he cried some more. And when his tears ran dry and there was nothing left to spill, he cried some more. And his mother, alone with him in his hospital room, beyond the immediate help of a staff or family member, searched and grasped for any strand of remedy. But without any other thing to try, without any other person to call out to, without any other prayer to pray, the pleas of her helpless child washed over and through her. Unable and unaided, she dropped her head and wailed out what un-bellowed grief was left inside her and simply waited for the weight of it all to crush her.

I’m not a parent and can’t yet understand such helpless, singlehanded anguish. But I think I may have witnessed some things close to it. There was that time I heard it in the voice of a young widow. I was at the funeral and was probably too young to know what it all meant, but that sound she made left scars on my memory. There was that time I saw it on the terror-slurred face of my post-stroke mother, unable to move or scream out from beneath her darkness. Reaching out to me, her son; helpless, hopeless, voiceless. And I saw it in your mother’s eyes the day she was told her oldest child, the daughter she’d fought so hard to keep alive as a premature baby, was about to begin the wildest, most frightening ride of her young life. And I saw it in her eyes when she came with us to your pulmonary function tests and could barely stand seeing you shudder with difficulty to get through each puff; seeing firsthand the cold grip this disease was tightening around you. And I’ve continued to see it in her eyes when, assault after assault, our hearts have been called on to endure more and more and then mercilessly more. As if the untold amount of stolen tomorrows weren’t enough.

It’s a look maybe only a mother’s eyes can produce; one that sees the universe in the face of her child and, in it, stores all the praise and hope of her own unfinished business, her own unmet triumphs. Perhaps it’s in our children and in our children’s children that we live forever, that we’re made perfect. But whatever the case, it’s terrible to encounter; that look.

Those are also the same eyes I glanced into on the day I proposed to you at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on that rainy New York Sunday. She and I had schemed the whole thing, weeks in advance, and when the day finally came I saw nothing but sheer acceptance and appreciation in her eyes. And that lifted a 2,000 pound load off my shoulders because your mom is the kind of woman every man wants approval from, especially the man wanting to marry one of her two amazing daughters.

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They’re the eyes that cried with us on countless nights as we used what little wisdom we had to piece together some sort of meaning when it came to love and fear and relationships.

They’re the eyes that were bloodshot and puffy after a sleepless night spent in a packed hotel room filled with my snoring that I really need to get checked out once and for all.

And they’re the eyes that saw the happiest day of my life; the day she gave up a daughter and the day I gained an entire family. When we all gathered in a single room and there was nothing but light and peace. And her eyes danced between you and me, and she saw us both as one; one of a kind and one of her own.

Hard as it is, I’m glad to have seen the spectrum of your life operate through your mother’s eyes.

Otherwise, it all wouldn’t mean as much to me without knowing how close you were to not surviving your birth. A young mother yearning to reach and hold and comfort her two and a half pound baby, yearning to then reach into her baby’s 28 year-old chest and coax away the monster shortening her breath.

I’m privileged to know the eyes that saw your feet plant their first steps, your lips shape their first words, your tongue taste its first snowflake.

Otherwise, It’d be hard to appreciate the magic through which you see the world; the problems that always have solutions, the villains who always deserve kindness, the fallen sparrow who will always have a song and a prayer, and the redeeming good that can always be done no matter how tired, how broke, or how much you may need the good deed yourself.

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It’s an honor to know the eyes that have seen you wade and struggle through bad denim outfits, self-centered boyfriends, unfortunate bouts of Bell’s palsy, mean high school girls and lost retainers.

Otherwise, it’d be hard to imagine what I would make of the woman who constantly forgives me, who constantly forces me to forgive myself, and who constantly pushes me to do the same for others, for everyone.

And it’s with gratitude that I am able to look into the eyes of the woman who gave you life and see the two pound baby who would then become the perpetually happy child who would then become the consciously kind young lady who would then become the dauntless woman who would come to pump new blood into my heart, spring new vision into my sight, and breathe new life into my lungs at the beginning of every day.

Otherwise, how else would I have found certain corners of myself? How would I have come to see the world in all its light or the people in all their goodness? How would I be able to continually collect the strength needed to lift my head, lift my spirit, and lift my voice to the heavens with thanks for the good and thanks for the bad and thanks for everything in between?

If ever I need to find the answers, your mother’s eyes are where I’ll find them. She keeps you in there. The years and years and sad times and Christmases and school plays and divorce and new homes and new lives and old friends and setbacks and fallbacks and Fall breaks and everything else I’ve missed but yearn to know. And at times, mostly recently, there’s a pain that pushes it all to the surface, leaving your mother fighting the tears back, lest bits of you come flowing out with them.

Let them flow, Jen. Let them flow out and into me. Trust a portion of them to my safeguarding. And shoulder to shoulder, we’ll keep her alive forever.

Love, H

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Love is a Playlist

February 25, 2016 ~ Henry ~ 2 Comments

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Dear Mackenzie,

Music is one of those things. Like a time machine, it takes you instantly back to the smells and the lighting and the textures of the time tied to a certain sound of a certain song. Eventually, instead of certain times, songs and artists start to tie themselves to certain people. Like you. And when you’ve been with someone for enough years, the songs start to pile up. Like with us.

There’s probably a song for every major moment in my life. More importantly, there’s probably a song for every hour we’ve spent together. But that’s most likely because, at any given moment, we’re either listening to music or youtube-ing music videos or googling random lyrics we can’t remember or simply singing louder than we should in the middle of a thrift store. And maybe that’s because when there aren’t words, there’re lyrics, and when there aren’t lyrics, there’re melodies. And that’s sometimes just what’s needed.

For times like when I skipped class to go with you to see Jurassic Park in 3-D, times like when we played Edith Piaf and made omelettes at 6:00AM while you’re roommates slept, and times like when it just hurts too much – inside and out – to make your own music… those are some of the times when melody and lyric and chorus and bridge does what nothing else can: capture a single or series of moments, forever to be called upon in times when the outside noise drowns everything else out.

It’s not exhaustive, but here’s a working playlist of some pretty great moments we’ve had so far…

1. For the Summer, by Ray Lamontagne

This is one of the first songs you used to introduce me to Mr. Lamontagne. And my life has never been the same ever since. For good and for bad. About 32 seconds into any song by Ray Lamontagne and I begin seriously contemplating a vegan lifestyle, teaching post-war French literature at an Appalachian liberal arts college. Also, this is your ringtone on my iPhone.

“Can I come home for the summer? I could slow down for a little while
Get back to loving each other
Leave all those long and lonesome miles behind”

2. Turning Page, by Sleeping at Last

That one time we’d “broken up” and you came over to my mom’s house so we could “talk” – which usually only ended in tears and more confusion – but instead, we just listened to music in the kitchen and when this song came on, we danced with the lights off and didn’t bother to ruin anything with pointless talk and just swayed in each other’s arms and wiped each other’s tears. And maybe you couldn’t see it, but I was floating.

Also, this is from the Twilight soundtrack. So, 500 points to us.

“I’ve waited a hundred years, but I’d wait a million more for you”

3. ***Flawless, by Beyoncé

LOVED this song when it first came out (because I’m a closet female Black Panther). But now it’s our morning alarm tone so now I HATE this song (because even human rights activists need a balanced sleep schedule).

“I woke up like this, I woke up like this. We flawless.”

Was Ashton Kutcher your computer wallpaper when I first met you? Was it?!

4. Brighter Than Sunshine, by Aqualung

Had we had the big wedding we initially wanted but thankfully avoided, this song from the A Lot Like Love soundtrack would have been the song used for our first dance. Even though I was firm in my desire to use Sade’s By Your Side. Small wedding = many avoided fights.

“It’s brighter than sunshine, let the rain fall, I don’t care”

5. Wide Open Spaces, by The Dixie Chicks

Our commute home is about an hour long. And you can fill every one of those hours for an entire year just singing Dixie Chicks songs. Especially this one. It’s fun for the first 37 minutes and then I slowly start to go to a dark place. But then I see the absolute bliss plastered on your face and I’m allowed a glimpse into the life of 15 year-old Mackenzie and I melt and cherish seeing you so free and happy. And then I speed up because we’re almost at our exit which means were closer to ending this torture.

“Many precede and many will follow
A young girl’s dreams no longer hollow
It takes the shape of a place out west
But what it holds for her, she hasn’t yet guessed”

6. Glory Bound, by Martin Sexton

For my 26th birthday, you took me to his concert, our first one together. He came out looking like the fourth member of the lollypop guild, but then opened his mouth and plucked his guitar and threw his head back in pure musical surrender and I wanted to throw myself at his feet. This song. Holy cow on a hot tin roof. You know what I’m talking about.

“I’m taking my chance on the wind
I’m packing up all my bags”

I’m guessing none of these guys have an IRA or Costco membership

7. Rivers and Roads, by The Head & the Heart

If there were theme music for all the people we know, this would be the song I’d pick for your brother Chandler. You LOVE your brother Chandler. I do too. He’s 200 lbs of muscle and tears. And he’s taught me to see the beauty of buying a VW van and living the life of a beat poet on the road. Someday.

“A year from now we’ll all be gone
All our friends will move away
And they’re going to better places
But our friends will be gone away”

8. Is This Love?, by Bob Marley

Yes, Bob. It is.

“We’ll share the shelter, of my single bed,
We’ll share the same room, for Jah provide the bread.”

9. Don’t Rain On My Parade, by Barbra Streisand via Funny Girl

Because I know all the words and can comfortably hit all the notes.

“Life’s candy and the sun’s a ball of buttah!”

10. Blackbird, by Bobby McFerrin

I missed that whole period in history when a man singing in and out of every orifice in his head was a thing. Apparently, it was. But you did NOT miss out on it. And every time Bobby comes up in Spotify or Pandora, you grab my forearm and – with every muster of your buster – tell me, “this is my childhood”. With tears in your eyes. And I just don’t get it. And that’s okay.

“Mmmdeep, mmmboop, mmmpop, mmmskee“

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11. Kathy’s Song, by Eva Cassidy

This is your favorite song. And it fits you. And who’s Kathy?

“And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There before the grace of you, go I”

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12. Hold On, by Wilson Philips

That one time I was vacuuming the hall and you were brushing your teeth and this song came on and I dropped the vacuum and danced my little, not-so-little butt off for you while you watched in awe that I knew all the words as I followed the natural flow of my body to the beats and rhythms. And then we hugged and forgot about the chicken burning in the oven. And that’s life and vacuuming sucks (#pun) and every once in a while we just need to be reminded to hold on for one more day and break free, break free from the chains.

Love, H

36609_10151104238461608_1531254096_n — You’re the cha to my cha

Men Are From Mars, Women Are Always Right

February 17, 2016 ~ Henry ~ 7 Comments

1025642_10100282257607224_923145276_o — Epic photo courtesy of Alyssa Tolman‘s mad skills

Dear Mackenzie,

Every relationship should come with monthly statistical reporting. For example, I’d like to know exactly how many times I’ve had to tell you to buckle your seat belt only to have you glare at me, shun my request, and pretend to ignore the beeping of the car telling you to listen to your husband. Likewise, how many times do you think you’ve told me to simply follow the recipe instead of improvising as if I’m Rachel Ray? (How was I supposed to know mushrooms, flour and vinegar wouldn’t make gravy?) But more than anything, I’d love to have a perfect recount of all the fights, arguments, petty snips, and under-the-breath snarks we’ve shared over the years.

Oh, the bombastic reasoning of two lovers in quarrel. For some reason, nothing seems to matter to me as much unless I’m arguing about it with you. Then EVERYTHING becomes life or death. Like that one time I soapboxed about Ruth Bader Ginsberg, arguing with you about her merits and contributions to the judicial landscape and fourth-wave feminism. First of all, I couldn’t even spell “Ginsberg” until I googled it 7 minutes ago. Second, we had that argument when I was 3 seasons into The West Wing, which led me to believe I had a law degree. Lastly, you didn’t even care about the argument, you just knew talking ill of Ruth would get a rise out of me. So, that one’s on you.

But without looking through the records of our fights, I know for sure we’ve had some pretty pointless doozies, most of which have been my doing. So, maybe chronicling them here in their ridiculousness will help us (mostly me) from repeating them. And it’s also probably a large comfort to know that plenty of other couples have similar spats. I’ve been to enough relief society meetings to know we’re not the only ones.

I’d first like to add that, for most of these fights, either 1) I hadn’t eaten in the past 20 mins 2) I just got off the phone with Comcast or 3) I just came out of a dressing room that had wide-angle mirrors. So, I’m partially justified in all of these instances. Right?

1. The fight we have right before walking into a social gathering

That one time we went to a birthday party at Thai Village and we got into a spat on the car ride there about “something” and had to put on a smile before walking in the doors because 17 people were at this party and we’re the “funny” couple and everyone holds us to that, forgetting we’re human and sometimes want to smash a pie in each other’s face. Well, we didn’t disappoint, because sometimes the show must go on and because you can turn a scowl into an angelic smile faster than I can judge a grown man wearing Abercrombie and Fitch. And after our second serving of red curry and pad thai, we’d forgotten what we fought about and after dinner we spent a moment in the cold car telling each other how sorry we were. And then I told you to buckle your seatbelt before the car was even on. And we were back to square one. And I’m an idiot.

2. The fight we have when one of us keeps falling asleep

That one time our dinner conversation carried over into the living room and then started to turn sour as we were getting ready for bed. And while you were in the shower, I was pacing the floor, formulating the perfect response. And then you came out of the shower and I watched as you brushed your teeth and puttered in the bathroom and I instantly forgot my point because sometimes I love you more than I like being right or being heard. And then you changed into your PJ’s and turned out the lights and came to bed and we started to resolve our discussion. And just when I remembered the 15 reasons why I’m right, you fell asleep. And stayed asleep. So, I won by default.

3. The church fight

Sometimes fast and testimony meeting seems like the perfect place to discuss why you spent so much money at Hobby Lobby the day before. It’s not. I know that now.

4. The fight we have in hushed tones at the grocery store checkout line

The difference between you and me: I have a hard time deciding what cereal to get, so I buy one and see how it goes. You have a hard time deciding what cereal to get, so you buy 12 boxes but only end up liking 2 of them and throw away the other 10 boxes a few months later. Exact quote: “Why do you need 3 boxes of Cinnamon Chex?” Exact quote, in response: “Because Henry, you’re not my dad!”

5. The hangry Fight

That one time we were held up by a late delivery, so we barely made it to Blue Lemon before they closed and when we ordered our food there was no blood in our faces or love in our voices. And then we swallowed our food like maniacs and looked into each other’s eyes and apologized for everything that happened in the hour prior. Yes, cheese is the 6th love language.

6. The fight we have about socks but it’s really about my daddy issues

Me: “It just makes me feel like you don’t validate me as a grown man”

You: “Fine, Henry…you can have another underwear drawer…”

7. The rush hour traffic fight

Me: “Hey Kenz, we should start looking at houses?”

16 minutes of discussion later…

You: “Stop the car, I’m getting out!”

8. The fight we have about the names we will and will NOT give our future children

Crypton is not a name you give a baby, my love. It’s a coding language used to navigate drone strikes.

9. The double-edged sword fight

That fight we seem to sometimes have where you’re talking about “A” and I’m talking about “B” and we don’t realize we aren’t even arguing the same topic until we’re in the middle of IKEA and a fabric decision on an ottoman is about to give us a brain aneurysm.

You: “Well, I think the way you chew is stupid!”

Me: “…Wait, I thought we were talking about Benghazi”

10. The nothing fight

Let’s face it, they’re all “nothing” fights. Because really, all of our arguments share a simple theme: we’re sick of wearing pants everyday and we just wanna be panda bears. And what’s wrong with the name Shoshana?

Love, H

The 11th Day

February 9, 2016 ~ Henry ~ 3 Comments

Dear Mackenzie,

Grief was always something that happened to other people in other places around me, but never to me. Not directly. I used to think grief was simply a state everyone eventually evolved into, like achy joints and ear hair. However, I’ve come to feel that gracefully mourning a loved one is an ability that can be mastered at any age. And for too many good people, it’s learned too soon and descends harder than I am yet able to understand or accept. Grief and loss and endings and grace; 29 years in this life and I’d never given it much thought. Now, it’s nearly all I think about. And not only in ways that it relates to us specifically, but also in ways that relate to the bigger world beyond you and me.

In high school, people were always surprised to find out that A.J. Pope and I are cousins. For starters, we were never very close or very much alike. He was always much more involved than me, more athletic, and actually went to his classes. I, on the other hand, was the only boy in the advanced dance class, was kicked off the moot court team for “over arguing”, and spent the majority of my senior year at Taco Bell. All hard to believe, I know. But I didn’t have to know A.J. perfectly to know firsthand of his kindness. Everyone who knew him knew that; that he’s calm but strong, witty but kind, fierce in his loyalty and wise beyond his years. All of which only added to my ache when, on February 5th, he and his lovely wife, Lizette, lost a newborn child for the second time. He lived 10 days.

What limits are there to the scope and breadth of anguish a single soul can bear? And what parts of the body does a grief that heavy go when everywhere else is full? I want to know. If there are words to satisfy, I want to know. At the very least, I wish I had an idea; just one idea that I could string to another and then string to another and then string to another until I had enough slack to make partial sense of it all. But I don’t. All I have is what I know, which isn’t much and might not help. But it comes from the heart, a heart that breaks for them in ways I can only second-hand imagine.

I know that I have memories of A.J., good memories that I’d probably be able to piece together to accurately describe his goodness to a stranger. I know many more who know him and have deeper memories of him, longer memories to fill in the holes and flesh out the man. I know enough of Lizette to know there are countless others who can retell her laughs and faces and happy times and hair dos. And I imagine a trial like this can make one feel evaporated, muted from life. But I know there’s enough of A.J. and Lizette in all of us to keep the spirit of them and their beautiful family forever vibrant and effectual in this life.

I know that, as opposed to what I used to believe, there are no areas of life off-limits to the hands of fate. Or destiny or chance or divine providence or whatever you call it. Part of being here is agreeing to what may and probably will come, and it’s hard and it’s terrifying and at times it keeps me from leaving my bed in the morning. But I think and I hope that it’s as fair and as justified as it is severe and deafening. For as exposed as we are to the hot hand of suffering, we’re just as susceptible to an unstoppable potential for power and godliness. Their world may deservedly feel desolate, but I know the ground they now walk is sacred and promised and reserved for the strongest shoulders of the most worthy.

I know that a healthy portion of this life is spent trying to reconcile the distance between time and eternity. More than that, however, may simply be reconciling the distance between the 9th and the 10th day of baby Likio’s life – the time it took to shake a world and loosen the fibers of a young and righteous home. And beyond that, what of the days to follow? What will fill the 11th day and then the 12th and then the 4,000th?

I only know a little bit. But I feel I know they’ll cross this desolate land, however many days it may take from this one. And in addition to their personal strength, I know they’ll make it because of the earthly and heavenly concourse behind them and ahead of them, on their left and on their right, in their past and in their future and aiding them from on high. They’ll cross this desolate land, because maybe that’s why we’re all still here. And maybe they’re one of the select few entrusted with the directions and the aptitude necessary to crossing. And when they get there, they’ll know the knowing we all seek. And they’ll feel the warmth and see the purpose and touch the faces of their beloved and sing the sweet words of life lost and reclaimed. And perhaps they’ll be honored for the multitude of their endurances in this life and the example they showed all of us. And perhaps they’ll look back and take slow, deep breaths and remember, with reverence, the precious price of it all.

Love, H

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