I am sitting here on my borrowed mattress trying to think of something profound. Or, interesting. Or, amusing. Or, helpful. Or, creative. Or pseudo-intellectual. I have now read so many posts on so many blogs. I want to borrow ideas from all of them. Every single one of them have been amazing or amusing or beautiful or touching or speaks of struggles, successes and new starts or…
The house starts shaking again as the rumbles of another train running along the edge of the backyard begin. The grandfather clock my siblings and I bought our parents for their 25th anniversary begins to chime. It doesn’t just play a single note or count the hour. This clock plays a song. It plays every 15 minutes with the song getting longer and longer the closer it gets to the top of the hour. I have no idea what we were thinking. I decide to put my iPad down and get a glass of water. My son is awake and in the kitchen.
“Don’t you just love that?” he asks. I have no idea what he is talking about.
“The trains. It’s like they’re rocking us to sleep, you know?”
I must have accidentally given him a look.
He continues, “Or like being on the top of a roller coaster.”
“You want to sleep on the top of a roller coaster?” I tease. We pick on each other. It’s how we bond. Holding each other to standards of linguistic precision and employing punnery is how we say ‘I love you.’ Engaging in sarcasm means ‘I am so glad you are in my life!’ The train now gone, we listen to the raccoons chatting under the bird feeders. These things sound lovely in writing but in reality they have been keeping me awake and interrupting my sleep for weeks now.
“It’s just, you know. Life just kind of happens. Things keep going. I like knowing that the raccoons play at night. I love listening to the coyotes howl to each other. I like it when the trains make the house shake. I like knowing that when I wake up every morning there will be a doe with two fawns outside my window,” he explains.
It’s 12:30am and okay for him to be vulnerable. But at 18, he is still figuring out that real men, macho men, all men can be vulnerable, cry, laugh, get angry, love, be sensitive, scream, be kind, be generous, be successful, make mistakes. He is still figuring out that to be a man is to also be a human being.
“I would really like to get that doe with my bow if I don’t get that buck I’ve been scouting.”
These sorts of touching Hallmark moments are just not compatible with visions of marinated venison steak steaming on the grill.
I go back to my borrowed room and pick up my iPad. And then I remember. It doesn’t matter what other people are doing. This blogging thing is about becoming a part of a community, about making connections, about sharing things that make the bad stuff, the confusing things make a little more sense, have a little more meaning. Like the clock, trains and animals interrupting my sleep, I was letting my own expectations of what I should be or not be interrupt my awakening. Today, for a little while, I forgot that it is okay for me to be vulnerable, cry, laugh, get angry, love, be sensitive, scream, be kind, be generous, be successful, make mistakes. I can write a post that is profound, artistic, mundane, interesting, ridiculous, illogical, inspiring, depressing. After all, I am a human being. And all of us here in the blogosphere are simply trying to figure out what that means.