That I could go this long without even whispering a desperate word . . . now that says a lot. Truth be told, it is not that I haven't had plenty going on in my life (for believe me, I have), but where does one start when one is buried underground? How does one dig up when up is as relevent as time is in death? My soul, deep in its cavernous state, searching for meaning amongst a whole host of hurdles and doubts and questions and emotions, all with teflon durability, has been clawing for peace; but peace, comes in stillness, and stillness is one wave that has only erratically visted my shores.



But today I begin a new leaf, I am not completely to the surface, but in my stillness, I am emerging.



Fatherhood
Why is it that people often glamorize (to a fault) or pessimize (not a word, but you can follow my meaning from the root pessimism) a given event, tradition, or experience? This reaction shortchanges the gestalt of the experience. Take fatherhood. As you are aware, if you've read my blog, I am a father. My baby, Saskia, is 13 months today. I love her deeply and desperately. I do, but when I listen to the rhetoric of many parents it follows some drafted, mundane script: "It's the greatest experience ever." "I think everyone should be a parent." "I've grown so much as a person by being a parent." "Having children is the greatest thing I've ever done." "The early years are the best years, before they hit their teenage years and just drive you crazy." And so forth.

What people cower to say are the things they don't like about it. As if by uttering any disagreeable word, they will jinx the experience, or they will somehow be less worthy of parenthood. Bullochs! My intention, right now, is to do just that. I am about to qualify, because some of you readers need qualifications to calm your qualms. Qualifyer: I love Saskia deeply. I would not trade her for my previous life. She is a wonderful blessing, and for however many years or days she is given to me on loan, I will do my best to institute love in all my actions. Now the meat. I don't like what fatherhood has done to me, thus far. I have become more anxious as an individual. I have more nightmares now than I did as a child. I worry about her constantly. I have dreams of her falling down stairs; of her being murdered; of kidnappings and rapes. I am nervous most days when I am around her; my breathing is altered. I am more disconnected with my friends. "What's the use?" I say to myself. "I won't be able to go to there or here with them, without feeling chided in my spirit for leaving her solely with Tessin." It is easier not to call my friends, (though I've refused to adopt that principle completely). I know how to be a father; there exists no awkwardness in my comfortness towards Saskia. I enjoy my connection with her, but there exists a schizm within myself. Parts of Mykee gets lost. I am less integrated, and I do not like this. I know time will take care of many of these concerns, but then I ask, "But will it?"

I look at my father and I see him as a father or a religious man, but I do not see the child in him anymore. Where did it go? Is this result the culmination of years of fatherhood? Where is the spontaneous man? Where is the boy who travelled to Scotland? Where is the youthful man who hid in the closet to scare his children when they came home with their mother? Where is the teaser? the prankster? Where did he go?

These are the questions I have today. This is only part of the soil which has choked me, and I share this with you my friends who seek to know me beyond the stage.