Lighter Times Ahead . . .

“Well, I know these are generalizations, so I don’t have to prove them, which is exciting.”
-- Charles Baxter

While my mind spins a mile a minute, I seem to be unable to form a complete thought. I thought maybe I could express what I’m thinking in a poem, no? Maybe a sonnet? Mmmm, too sappy. A limerick? Appropriate given the imminent St. Paddy’s Day, but, er, please. An acrostic poem? Too, um, first grade. So I’m back to paragraphs. I sit in my chair reaching up to the keys of the computer 2 feet above me. Must lower computer shelf. Maybe I’ll put on some music. Maybe that will help me write.

That’s better. I’m reading a book right now. It’s beautiful. It unassumingly documents with seemingly no effort simple but profound movements, quiet thoughts often unheard by others, and inexplicable aches that unite us as mankind and yet rarely are discussed or shared. Those experiences that we’re only able to reach common ground with through a character rather than a friend or a lover. Seems strange. And sad. We’ve all read those books. Where it seems like the author climbed into our head and stole our thoughts for National Book Award acclaim. It’s a dangerous path. Blindly identifying with fiction while the rest of world becomes irrelevant and odd.

It’s been a difficult week. My best friend and her husband welcomed a beautiful baby boy last Friday. He’s gorgeous. And sweet. I was fortunate to be the designated videographer of his miraculous entry into the world. I was among the first to see those tiny fingers, that perfect nose, and his innocent exasperation at the new world before him. In his first act of rebellion, he presented his fine, smooth hair defying his mother’s gift of her wild, lovely curls. I’ve been told this act of defiance may not last and he still may inherit her unruly locks.

Amid the greatest bliss I’ve ever witnessed came the realization that this beautiful boy was different from other babies. I hate the word “normal.” I refuse to use it. I won’t go into details. I will say that he has a difficult road ahead of him.

I had a youth director/leader/whatever when I went to church regularly for a short period of time back in my teens. I might have been 15 or 16. He said that thinking about Jesus should be like breathing. I tried and tried to breathe in and out thoughts of Jesus. To feel him at the very base of my lungs and to see his name in my warm exhale. Despite my efforts, my Jesus breathing gave way to usual teenage thoughts of boys and college and clothes. And my exploration of the Catholic church gave way to a despondence for organized religion. My thoughts and prayers for my friends' baby have been the closest I’ve ever come to my Jesus breathing. I breath in and out thoughts of strength and optimism for him and his parents.

I struggle with clichés. I hate them. Really. And yet in a time like this, they seem relevant. And tested by the passing of time. Summations of learned experiences by generations before. As trite as it may sound, I believe that greatness and beauty arises in the face of great challenge. I believe that this baby will rise to levels of achievement and heroism unimaginable to those who have been blessed with plebian lives.

I guess I find peace in that.