Break the Heart to Spite the Tradition

 Thanksgiving has never been my thing... I've always been a person that prefers independence from expectations vs. the family that all gets together and eats too much, sleeps, and watches sports on TV. It simply was not an annual tradition that spoke to me in any meaningful way... I instead constructed a ritual that involved being with someone I loved, and sharing a rare Thursday off from work in each other's company... getting excited for the forthcoming Christmas and watching Rick Steve's European Christmas. This has been my ritual, and it made me feel whole. When Hannah and I came together, I shared that with her, and I realized that being within a family unit (her family unit); did not mean the same things it had for me for so long. It was similar, but it also felt compassionate, warm, and full of love for one another. Our journey off to New Orleans brought her traditions and mine into a new mold. My first real tree at Christmas, and her remarkable ability to transform our home into a spirited but muted celebration of old and rustic. With Hannah and Ethan, our Christmasses have been realizations of something I had come to believe were romantic notions perfect for the Hallmark Channel but ungraspable in, not only The South, but in reality in general. 

It was from this perspective; this very narrow imagining, that leaving New Orleans for Asheville was an executable leap of faith. Painting thoughts of a possibly white Christmas; at least a cold Christmas, added an aspect to our holidays that Hannah wasn't able to previously replicate. It was enough of a fantasy that I towed a car behind a U-Haul for the first time in my life on Thanksgiving Day 2021 and moved all but our son to another state for a new chapter. And that one and only Christmas together in Asheville was as amazing, and beautiful as I had hoped. 

Now... it perniciously hangs over me in a taunting, hateful sort of way. It feels like a betrayal... not by Hannah; but by my own path to this fantasy Christmas in the mountains, in the cold, in the crisp-air laden with the aroma of burning wood from surrounding family homes. This arrived in my life, and it happened only once, and now it's a memory that rakes at my composure and nurses at the pain that now fills my heart. I knew holidays would be hard, that's inescapable, and I'm certainly not alone in being alone. I have so much to be thankful for, and so many have so little. I've not forgotten that today.

Halloween has been measured by the years since Shawn passed. Thanksgiving will be forever be a mile marker of when everything in my life changed. My traditions feel like they belong in the box with the syringes, the absinthe spoons, and love letters... the tools by which I can destroy myself to a point of finality. 

Today, with nothing to do but what I want to do, which is an absolute blank slate after 50 years of it being patterned out for me; I choose to embrace my quirks. In a few minutes, I will drive an hour to sit atop a mountain and look for the Brown Mountain Lights. The unexplained, the paranormal - these have been my comfortable places to hide since childhood, and this seems like a good opportunity to be alone staring off into the darkness in search of a light that fills me with something, anything other than sadness and pain.

You didn't text; didn't call... it feels like you didn't care. Today was hard enough, and maybe I am being forced into some symbolic representation of this new experience. 

Michael Gerson

 I know very little of this man's story, but the snippets I do know, suggests a person who spent their life committed to deeply held beliefs that were unflappable at their lowest moments. Any snapshot from Gerson's life speaks volumes about any moment in his life and career. My introduction to Gerson was during the George W. Bush regei-ahem presidency...yeah W - the dumb one that waged war on America. So, yeah - I disliked him. I assumed he was either an idiot following an idiot, or part of the Ashcrost/Rove/Cheney was machine. He was none of those... much like Pence, he found himself a Christian in a morale-bankrupt-cash grab on America Party. Unlike Pence, Gerson did not speak to the veil - he spoke to his beliefs as a Christian. Okay - I know, all GOP "are Christian" - but Gerson indeed was. Though maybe I can't agree with his party of choice, and I can't share his beliefs - I admired his transparency and honesty. He pleaded with Evangelicals to NOT back the Cheeto-King due to his incitement, bigotry, and malice. He wrote the most passionate words W. ever said following Sept. 11attacks. This line in particular punches:

"Grief and tragedy and hatred are only for a time. Goodness, remembrance, and love have no end. And the Lord of life holds all who die, and all who mourn."

He was a remarkable artist with words, his stories often bit with force; familiar enough with the history of America's politics, that even an air of hypocrisy was fresh bait. His craft fed his pride, a party-member that holds the same convictions throughout their life is god-like in reverence. In a political environment that favors hurting the other party over policy, there are few who are the moral-equivalent of Gerson. His death seems like one fewer soldier protecting truth from narrative; illustrating what a Christian-faith dictates, and it's not a hyperbolic journey through made up Biblical morality...

Would I elect someone like Gerson? No... sadly, an infallible Christian life also means that you do not believe a woman has the RIGHT to make decisions over her own body. Sacrificing those rights for someone that would lead with morality and be an honest American President is still no contest for me. Women and their bodies and their ability to have dominion over those bodies is a very REAL thing, and you, however moral and just you are, have chosen to devote your belief system based on a book of fables written hundreds and thousands of years after Christ died as the word of an omnipotent creator. So... again, we don't have to agree to respect. 

I don't know why I wrote this last paragraph. It sounds like I am defending myself against an audience that doesn't exist. I'm yelling "NOT REPUBLICAN" in a post about a GWBush Staffer. 

After 90 Minutes Time

 Often, I emerge from an unraveling narrative in my head, and find myself some miles down the road, with no recollection of the journey. NPR goes in an out in the mountains; sometimes mixing itself into fiery scripture, or modern country, so it's frequent that I just don't turn the radio on and drive in silence... (well, other than the conversations my brain is producing and the din of the road beneath my car). compact discs are packed away, and I don't even know what I'd pull out... nothing seems too worthy of the search right now. Spotify is a handy standby, but its not integrated with the car stereo, so not very manageable while driving. Generally, the drive to the office is an hour, most days, its an hour home. Two hours is a long time to spend with my self-esteem, my self-deprecation, and my depression. They engage me as conspirators, playing a game where they make worst case scenarios plausible; and with remarkable artistry, scenes are constructed in which I have a starring role. Every effort is made to tear away the veil of normalcy and stab at my heart in a detached and disinterested finality. By the time I arrive at said office, or said home - my demeanor has crawled well and truly through the darkest depth of my psyche and left me with little to construct into a façade of functional adulthood. 

I think that's all the words I have tonight. Far fewer than I constructed on my ride home. Tomorrow, I'd like to talk a little about Michael Gerson that passed away today. He's someone that adulted very well...

Listening to: PBS News Hour from another room.