NEW TOOLS

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
This post will be about honesty, so if that disturbs you, read no further.
I stand in abject awe of those who have a faith that stands them through good times and bad, year in and year out. I am one of four siblings and my two brothers and sister have a faith I can only yearn for.
But I am the lost sheep, the seeker; destined to search for, but never find the one answer that will see me through my tumultuous journey.
I had 12 years of Catholicism and it didn’t take. I memorized the Tao Te Ching and recited it daily for 6 years until it too lost its power to inspire. I have undergone Jungian analysis, hypnotherapy, a 12 step program, and even found brief enlightenment in the teachings of his Holiness the Dalai Lama. None of these efforts provided the permanent answer to my quest for illumination.
I have two good habits; daily exercise and healthy eating. But I also have size 12 feet of clay; an enduring melancholia coupled with serial recidivism.
In short, I am deeply flawed, and so, it should not surprise you to learn that from time to time I avail myself of psychological counseling. Last month I went to see my counselor, David, and told him I needed some new tools to deal with the stress of being a house husband at 57. I was having trouble finding purpose in my daily tasks of changing diapers, doing the dishes, making dinner, feeding our toddler, and the other sundry tasks that filled my day. I was out of sorts and feeling like a failure when the inevitable frustration of the manifold tasks mounted up on me.
And he helped me; with new tools that allowed me to step back from whatever I was involved in at the moment; exercises enabling me to observe and really focus on the task at hand without getting caught up in the litany of negative tapes that play in my head.
And most importantly he got me to believe that my purpose was not some grandiose illusory creation of my bad brain, but rather, whatever was my current simple task at hand; whether doing the shopping or changing a diaper.
I left his office feeling calmed and hopeful. Then I went home and took over for my wife as she went off to work. And I set about making dinner with my toddler, Vivienne, creating havoc in the kitchen as I worked. As I cooked she spread all her toys around the kitchen, creating an obstacle course that I had to navigate as I went from sink to refrigerator to butcher block. And she hung on my legs, clutching my jeans in her fat fists, her head between my knees, singing what sounded like Chinese opera in her keening voice as I shuffled about.
And then our dog Kebu, enticed by the smell of fresh meat, ambled out to the kitchen and I tossed her a treat and my daughter promptly took it from the dog and put it in her own mouth, and then back in the dog’s mouth, back and forth; playing your basic bait and switch. And I watched my well-trained dog exhibit super-human patience with this teasing, never snapping but gently taking her deserved treat when Vivienne finally tired of the game and let it go.
And everything was just as it was meant to be; the chaotic toddler, the regal Akita, and the Dad fixing dinner. I wasn’t an unemployed loser without a purposes; I was just a guy making dinner for his kid and his wife while my obedient dog lay in her assigned spot and hoped for the occasional treat thrown her way.
I just stayed in the moment, not frustrated, singing along with my daughter’s nonsense prattling, preparing dinner and observing myself and the chaos surrounding me, and being okay with all of it.
And when I had put the dinner in the oven and finished with my work I took my daughter out on the deck to observe the sunset. It was one of those superb Indian summer dusks we in Santa Rosa have been blessed with lately. The sky was positively Venetian in its coloring, shifting from orange to purple to yellow. Vivienne raised her arms, indicating that she wanted to be held, and so I lifted her up on my lap and she sat still as the sun spread a golden hue over the grass and oak trees that fill the valley behind our home. The shadows lengthened and still Vivienne sat quietly as I bounced her gently on my knee.
Then my daughter turned and looked at me, said, “Dada,” and pulled at my moustache. She put her mouth on my nose and my beard, running her hands over my face as if memorizing every crows foot and worry line on my face.
And I felt closer to her than at any time in her 13 months with us. I felt a connection that was deeper than all the strivings, failures and conjectures that have made up my turbulent history.
And then she pursed her lips, tilted her head up towards mine and graced me with her first kiss.