Life In Perspective

Those close to me know my "Fat Bob" story. When you're 18, concern for the feelings and perceptions of others doesn't matter, and for some, the same could be said of a 28 year old. But not me. My "Fat Bob" story no longer holds relevance. Here's why: (I'm still going to relay the story after this next point)

While walking Vince this morning I realized that happiness is different for each of us. We all find satisfaction in different things. Ali discovered that smiles after taking a bite of her Molten Lava Cakes, Apple Crisp, and other delights brought a smile to her own demeanor. I find that a clean garage, vehicles, and kitchen make me smile. And this morning I realized that, for Vince, there is nothing better than peeing on things, and deficating in the most beautiful yards.

I brought baggies, because I know this. [Side Point: Anything you love, you must pick up doo after]

So, happiness is in different boxes for different people, and everything said more than a few years ago makes us go red in the face, because we've developed and see the errors in our ways. A few years from now, I will delete this post, as it will remind me of my foolishness. But not to steal Colin's favorite dilemma to write about.

Back to Fat Bob. When I was 18, I talked with a Marine Recruiter. I had broad goals for my life, but no plan for how to get there. I heard what he said, and liked the idea of becoming something better (skill-hound) and getting out of dodge. But it wasn't until I was driving home from the high school that I made my decision. I was on 33 West, stopped at the light on 3rd Street in Goshen, when I looked in my rear view. There, in a gold Honda Accord, was Fat Bob. His real name could have been anything. He wore glasses, was thinning on the top, and was looking directly at me. I noticed that (presumably) his wife was next to him, bickering at him. There was a small boy and a smaller girl bouncing about in the back seat, restrained only by the final give of their seatbelts. Fat Bob's eyes, they said "Go." And didn't mean push the gas.

They meant have some adventure. Do whatever, sign up for some unknown. Dive headlong into uncertainty.

And that's what I did.

So here's where perspective comes in. Little did I know that adventure is what I'd get. I didn't anticipate what's happened in ten years. All of my guesses have been not only off-the-mark, but not even firing down the same range.

And I guess adventure is what I've had. As a noun, adventure is a risky undertaking, the ending of which is uncertain. At 18 I would have thought it meant open seas, mud and trees, fast vehicles, a few bullets flying by, and resigning yourself to deal with it all.

Only my friends have had to deal with bullets.

These have been really long posts lately. I'll cut it out after this.

So in looking back, I'll list some of the things I wouldn't have listed at 18:

1. Giving my heart so completely.
2. Getting married.
3. Becoming a widower.
4. And now I'm drawing blanks.

My adventure was Alison. Though I thought I wanted rappelling and long hikes, marksmanship training and leadership; the challenge I found most satisfaction in was exactly (well, not exactly) what Fat Bob had. Love and a wife. The story of our love was my great adventure.

And I'd do it all again. Over and over.

I'd pick up doo.

Autumn Ride For Memorial

I love all Pikes in Indiana. Once upon a time they were the widest and most direct routes between towns. They follow the countour of the land for the most part, but also respect the property lines of the old farms. Nowadays, however, they are hidden from even Google Maps, and are only relevant to local folk and those navigating with atlas's filled with county maps and contour lines. (my father and I are the only people I know to have such maps, and I learned it from him and his desire to fish new streams.)

So this afternoon I left work on the bike and headed for Rushville. I rode the Fortville Pike, the Morristown Pike, and Rushville Road (which should be called the Rushville Pike). It is the same route that Colin and I rode two weeks ago. In those two weeks the roads changed dramatically. There were trees turning yellow at the top as if sun burnt, and some that were a dark wine all around, as if the bulk of their leaves were secretly held by a long-stemmed glass. The breeze was stiff, and was raking dried leaves across the back roads.

I had an early dinner/late lunch at a diner in Carthage, which is where Ali's Grandma lives. I love wearing my Stitch into diners and shops, because people look at me as if I were a moonman, or dealing with toxic chemicals. In a way I am both. The former is obvious by sight and if I spelled sight site, and the latter is because the whole point is to keep my skin, which is probably why most would wear such a suit while handling toxins.

After leaving Carthage I conquered the part of Rushville Road that defeated me two weeks ago and left me riding with handlebars bent back like I was the shortest kid alive on a big kid's BMX bike. (The experienced rider's course comes highly recommended from me)

But then it was business time, the reason for the trip, and I walked into Todd Funeral Home in Rushville to pick out Alison's Headstone.

That was hard.

More emotions surged against my levy than I anticipated.

But I chose the one best suited for her. It won't be ready until between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I am having a custom design made. They don't make classic yet young-looking designs. I want one that would both suit Ali and stand the test of time.

I debated stopping by the church and visiting her grave, but opted not too. I will soon. In some ways I have to talk myself into believing that she's not there waiting for me, and will not be disappointed if I am late. She IS in a better place, not in that place. That place is beautiful, but I anticipate going there to center myself, to choose perspective, not to really visit.

That's another proof source that every man is different.

Speaking of self-talk, the whole point of this post is to say that I thought about being disappointed that Ali's missing her favorite season (think stiff breezes and floating leaves), but it dawned on me that it's got to be even more perfect where she is. There the Pikes are even more bendy, and the leaves last that much longer in their late radiance.

I love her every bit as much while I'm away from her as I do when I am with her. I can feel me come back now. My words. And my heart. If that makes any sense at all.

Signs I Am Not Okay

It's that time of year again, where there are preparations being made to get duded and dolled-up to celebrate the Birthday Ball. Today a senior guy asked if I made reservations yet at the hotel where we are holding it (downtown Indy). I said no, and I had no intention to stay the night there. He naturally asked why. I said because I do not plan on drinking wildly with people that I'd like respect from the morning after plus the next two years. He said alright, but kind of urged me for more, so I relented that I was dually weirded out by attending by myself.
This is the first time in 7 years I won't have Alison.
Well in Japan we were all stag so it was okay.
He automatically replied that I should get a date.
Insert foot after sentence.
I told him I was not quite ready, well not ready at all for that, and that I was content to stay for the ceremony and go on my way.
I faught a tear during that last sentence, and knew I was not quite alright.
I may go UA.

tommyPod

I have these great headphone/earplugs that I use when I ride long distance. They're great. Yesterday I realized that right now I'm much like the iPod that I plug them into. Well, in one way specifically. Have you noticed that when you listen for a while, or shift from song to song, the battery dies quicker? It'll say it's done, but if you turn it off for a while, it'll find some reserve power? Especially when you flick between songs. Leave it alone, let it play, and it will last a lot longer.
That's how I am with playing the social necessities/requirements. I tire out quickly and need to shut down. I reluctantly find more power. I smile, I tell jokes. I make small talk. I go home and shut down. Rip my hair out. Come back, smile again.
Where's the car charger?
Where's the power cord?
Hell, I'd settle for USB.

Digital Age Blues

The digital age is just too much.
With every second recorded...
It used to be that you'd just have to come to peace with revisiting your memory.
But now videos make her live over and over again in a little box.
And each time the clips end, I suffer her death like it's August Fifth.
At least my memory can keep going...
...or be blurry enough to lack a beginning or an end.

Of course Ali's favorite things included archiving everything. And even higher on the scale was revisiting old photos and remembering the stories.

But shouldn't we just allow ourselves to be there at the time of...
...and in some other moment now?

In blog-news, Colin and I completed the Experienced Rider's Course this weekend, I saw their new house for the first time, and I lost a 400 dollar phone off the back of the trailer, and it reiterated the thoughts above, but with an "Okay, I admit my dependence on my phone for flashlight capabilities, alarm capabilities, web capabilities, email capabilities, GPS capabilities, text, phone capabilities of course, calendar, video camera, camera capabilities."

Just delete capabilities with new necessities or bad habits. Or just flat-out my reliance upon.

Moto-Camping

1997 Suzuki DR-350SE
Originally uploaded by tommykline

Had nearly the best weekend on record this weekend. I uploaded some of the photos to flickr. I have some good videos, but they're in the wrong format so I will have to convert them before I post one or two.

Soon I'll be all by myself in this big house. I haven't even begun to organize and sort. I've discovered it is possible to be ready to and not be ready to do things at the same time. I'm ready to sort and downsize, but dread it too.

Overall I feel okay. I am trying to lead a normal life, and count my blessings. Basically, I am trying to make Ali's death the thing I don't think about every 4 seconds anymore... Maybe just every couple of minutes would be good.

Last Night

Last night I was asleep when I heard my name called from just above my right ear. "Tom", crystal clear, and clearly Alison's voice. "Tom" in her voice as if to wake me and ask me something. I had the initial instinct to say, "Yeah babe, whaddy'a need?" I am 75% sure I said it out loud. Loud enough to wake me up, realize what I heard, and be startled.

But just after I conquered that emotion, I wanted to be comforted by her voice some more. I promised I would lay back down and 'act cool.'

I am surprised that I was able to return to sleep. Sleeping is one of my greatest talents though.

Tonight I shall not be startled...

Some of My Break-Throughs

Some of my break-throughs come while composing emails.

Yesterday I was writing to explain some things, and I wrote that I what I don't feel is pain. I feel loneliness. I feel sad that Alison won't fulfill her earthly dreams. But not angry. And I am not feeling pain. And what's best, is as I was writing it, I was realizing it was true.

I have a big poster of Ali and I walking together in the Relay For Life. She's looking up at me trying to give me a smooch. The poster is leaning up against my dresser. It's the first thing I see when I turn on the lights every morning. It's comforting. My brain tells me it should bring pain, but it brings comfort. That's another proof-source that the pain is subsided.

Also true is that I have no regrets. I am pleased with the way a bad story had good things happen within. I'm glad we got back in time to spend good time with family. I've already written about it I guess. I'm even glad I won certain arguments, and lost others. It went down perfectly. Perfectly but still tragic.

But I'm finding it easier to do things. Easier to breathe... and I am thankful for that.

Eeking Out A Future

I promised my life to Alison. Gave it to her. Dedicated my future gladly. We were supposed to discover new wrinkles, take long walks, talk about the kids, go out for breakfasts to some mom's and pop's joint.

Now I have my life back. The possibilities are endless on how to dispose of it, but the one possibility I was excited about is gone.

So what now?

No decision is a decision. But, any decision seems unfulfilling, especially no decision.

I Am Tears

To everyone who knew Alison, I am Tears.

The initial feeling that I had "Widower" written across my forehead for everyone that knew of Alison's passing has subsided.

Now to everyone that really knew us, I am the half that is missing.
I am a reminder of the pain.

I am Racing Thoughts,
I am Hurt,

I am Tears.

What If She's Missing Me Too?

C. S. Lewis' rants are unnerving to me, but one cut deeper than any other. He writes that little is known about the details of heaven. He writes, "Why should the separation (if nothing else) which so agonizes the lover who is left behind be painless to the one who departs?" One sentence takes it too far out of context. What he means is, "Is she missing me too?"

Up until now I have been self-centered with my pain. Self-interested and self-focused. What if she's where she's at, missing me just the same? I could not handle that. Still, it's selfish of me to be this self-concerned. She's the one that was robbed of life. I think she enjoyed it more. She's the one that suffered so dearly. The one that never gave up. Yet it is only me here tonight.

Lewis writes that even though others have died before his wife, for them he is able to pray for them, think of them, and be sure that they're okay. "But when I pray for H., I halt."

I no longer have to write this. C. S. has written it all already.

Seeing the Blessings: Knowing My Limits

Scarcely a sentence of honesty. But a struggle to find clarity none the less...

I want to write two things:

1) I understand reading this from a distance. In the not-too-distant past I would have been none too interested myself. Cancer couldn't have been Alison's back pain. Life would go on forever. Autumn and winter were myths! Those that believed in those false seasons were Nay-Sayer's, half-emptier's, fire and brimstone types. Their hearts were already sunken.

My heart is not sunken. It wants in this moment, more than it ever has, to feel love and in love. It's capacity for that emotion is now broken. Broken as a container, a box. The walls have collapsed around my love and it flows out as a flood. It floods out but the source continues.

I cannot write that cancer can happen to the one you love the most. I can pray it does not.

I do not pretend to know God. Or His will. Or how the universe works. Or even this world. Or the principle of magnetism. Not really at least. Nor how chlorophyll works. Instead I have only evidence that God has quotas. Quotas for things like hardships, for adversity, and finally - for bringing us home.


Some very thoughtful friends gave me a book tonight: C.S. Lewis' A Grief Observed. I cannot wait to read it in its entirety. But he writes, "nothing will shake a man....out of his merely verbal thinking and his merely notional beliefs. He has to be knocked silly before he comes to his senses. Only torture will bring out the truth. Only under torture does he discover it for himself."

I cannot write to any one's emotional intellect. On my best day I can only dance in your notional beliefs. Should I still attempt to?


2) I can write that I am blessed. I have long accepted death as a part of life, and trust that in God's quota system, in His script, He chose wisely. In this messed up story line, so many things went right that I know He was there. Placing pads on my knees. Rubbing the rocks out of my hands after I fell. Metaphorically of course. In very real terms He placed and is placing friends at the right place at the right time. For me AND for Alison. He gave us great medical care, and insurance to boot. He brought us home in time for some dinners and some laughs, in time for some family. He gave us outlets for our thoughts.

In very poignant terms, I was blessed by a two-year heads-up from Him. Not everyone gets that. Not everyone has very lenient employers. Not everyone gets to love nearly as deeply, nor be loved as deeply as I have. I am overlooking several, but I know with emotional intelligence, that if the boat had to sink, we had the most fortunate surrounding circumstances, and we drained every drop of enjoyment from the vessel that we could. Right down to the final breakfast.

Those are my two things. Not nearly as eloquent as they deserve, but like I said: it is only my own expectation.

I have no idea how I'll continue on without Alison. But I will. I trust that I will.

Scarcely Honest Sentences

I've been trying to write the thought in my head for two weeks. It's a square thought I'm pushing through a round hole. This thought simply will not budge. It's so frustrating! I guess that's real writer's block. I just never thought of it that way. A metaphorical square cube of thought, trapped inside my head unable to move.

The thought that comes to mind now is: It's our own expectations that are the hardest to meet.

Man, I wonder when my writing will return to normal cognitive thought.

This weekend I went to the after-party of my High School reunion. 10 years passes like a river, barely perceptible but moving with unbelievable force. The thing I learned is this: there are no right choices. The experience reaffirmed for me that no matter what you choose, or what your answer is, you're going to be at the same place anyways.

Now, I can't exactly articulate what that means; it's kind of like looking down a tunnel. Who knows what's there at the end?

And here I stand, erasing all the honest sentences because they lead places I'd rather not bring you.

Time to hang up the keyboard. Square thoughts.