Aaron Polson's Blog, page 6

Disbanding the Booster Club

I've always wanted people to like me. 

It's been my greatest weakness and one which I share with plenty of the world's population. After all, humans are social creatures, right? Of course we are. But trying to live a life so others will "like" you leads down a steep, rocky slope to the badlands. It leads to anxiety, suffering, and unhappiness. I have no desire to wallow in that mire ever again.

Yesterday, our school's band director shared a nugget of wisdom he learned as an undergrad: when you take your first job, disband the booster club.

What? Throw away all the support? All the fundraising? All the advice?

His explanation: even though you might step on a few toes, it leaves you free to direct your band and run your own program without being beholden to a sea of sometimes disparate and not-so-reasonable voices. I live in a world of metaphor and didn't lose the correlation with my life. After Aimee died, I received support from scores of people and silent encouragement from even more. She touched many lives in Lawrence, undergraduate school at the University of Columbia, and all the way back to her childhood in St. Louis. Plenty of people wanted to give back. I get that. I respect it, too, and I'm grateful for those who care. I will always be grateful for those who care and share their love.

But I must make decisions for my life and the lives of my kids on my own. I continually feel pressure from those who would have me "be" Aimee--at least live my life as they assume it would be should she still be alive--but I'm not Aimee. Never was. Never will be. My life changed irrevocably with her death. I'm the director of this band and must do what is right for me and the boys--us. It might not be what someone else would choose. Likely, it won't be. I'll listen to advice, weigh its merits, but chose the path based on what we need.

Will I make mistakes? Sure. Will I take risks? Absolutely. Will there be hard days? Of course. Will there be joy and love and goodness? Of course--I know there will be plenty of love and goodness. The trail up the mountain is just as rocky as the way down--but I hear the lakes are clear and beautiful and the view breathtaking--much better than the swampland at the bottom of the hill.

Fearing the Unknown

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." 

H.P. Lovecraft, right? Fear sounds like a great topic for a horror writer's blog, especially during October. Just don't tell anyone I haven't finished a story since March, okay? Besides, I'm a human being before I'm a horror writer. And this human being has faced a lot of fear in his life. Note the past tense: faced.

Last night, someone very dear to me asked if I was "scared" of the future. I took a minute to feel the the question, weigh it a little, and try to understand my feelings before I responded.

No. Not scared. I don't fear the future anymore. While I wrestle a bit with the unknown, it's a much healthier relationship than fear. Fear paralyzes and leads to poor judgement. Fear kills dreams and clogs the pathways to achieving goals. Maybe a better word than fear is anticipation, that heightened sense of reality when expecting something important, something big. Something challenging but wholly good. 

And the future is good. Life is good, even when it is a struggle. Even when awful tragedy happens, I still have the choice to focus on hope and goodness and the gifts I've been given. Yes, it may be impossible to feel hope and goodness in the midst of the tragic event. I know--I've been there. But the lesson looks different seven months later. None of us make it through life without scars, but scars become stories, and stories remind us of the preciousness of each day. Besides--when "bad things" happen, they will do so whether I allow fear to eat away my life or not. An abundance of fear makes no one safer. That is the lie that fear whispers to us. 

Wasted energy, if you ask me. I'd rather save my energy for the road ahead.

So how do I feel about the future? Hopeful. Filled with a healthy level of anticipation. Ready to roll up my sleeves and go to work. It's good.

Keep Talking

Communication is hard. It's the most difficult activity in which we humans engage. And while other animals "communicate," humans are the only creatures on the planet to use language. Feel free to use your uniquely human ability to use language and argue that one in the comments below.

When I started teaching, one of the courses on my load was titled "Applied Communications." It was nothing but a "dumbed-down" speech class built around modules published in the late 1980s. I first taught the class in 1999-2000. So much had changed in just over a decade... The modules were oh-so out-of-date.

But this hadn't changed: communication is hard.

I can send what I feel is a very clear message to someone, but that message passes through filters and noise before being received and interpreted. The message, truly, is in the ears (or eyes) of the beholder. Language is infinitely complicated and communicating tainted with all sorts of external and internal "stuff" before decoded and understood. It's frightening, really, to try and make someone understand your message as you want it understood. Sometimes it requires persistence and repetition. Sometimes it requires dogged stubbornness. Sometimes it requires all the patience love can muster to make the message heard.

This I believe: words are not cheap. As a human, I know they are my most complicated tool. I've spent my life trying to understand their nuance, but still fall short sometimes. And while I can't argue against the old adage "actions speak louder than words" I believe in the power of words written or said well to send the right message. Sometimes words are all I have. Sometimes the message doesn't break through the noise and emotional stuff the first time.

This is why I keep talking. This is why I continue to send the message. This is why I won't quit.

I saw Pink Floyd on this tour. Amazing show. Keep talking.

Time, Place, and Memory

I took a walk this afternoon. A park sits just to the west of the school stadium, and a nature trail winds through the woods of the park. Years ago, when I taught Emerson and Thoreau, I would walk my English classes to the park and have them sit and experience "nature," journaling about their experience.

I hadn't been on that path for years. It had changed a little. A few taller trees, a little less water in the pond thanks to our summer drought. A felt a moment of nostalgia, but the moment passed.

Earlier this week, I took another walk. The top 10% from our senior class were honored at KU's Memorial Union, and after the ceremony I strolled around the campus. I have very few memories of the campus from my years as a graduate student. I was also a new father and full-time teacher, so most of my memories are blurry at best--not to mention 75% of my classes met in Kansas City at a satellite campus. Most of my memories stem from other times, some distant and some very recent... some slightly bittersweet and some strong and good.

Here's what I've learned about place and memory: time passed isn't as much a factor to how I experience a place as the time in my life when I revisit it. The lenses I'm wearing now shape how I tell the stories of my memories, and memories without stories attached are just vague things without much form or shape.Like ghosts of feelings which, like other ghosts, can haunt.

Visiting those places often exorcises the ghosts and leaves the story. I want the story. The ghosts can stay behind.

For years, I used to feel sad when we left my mom's place in Clay Center. It was a deep, chest-squeezing sadness. I grew up in that house. My formative memories hold it at their core. Earlier this fall, as we drove away from the house for the last time, no sadness came. I was done with that part of my life--I knew it, and this part, where I am now, has no need for that old house. The lack of feeling almost surprised me, but it also reminded me that this is how it should be.The ghosts don't need to haunt us.

I have countless stories from my childhood--countless stories built from memories of that house, my neighbors, and the small town which raised me, but I don't carry sadness anymore. Stories are good, wholesome things. Human things. And I count myself lucky to be able to tell them.

Certain Measurements

Six months ago today, a pounding on my front door woke me. Two sheriff's deputies and a parish priest were on the front stoop to tell me Aimee was dead, killed when a southbound coal train struck our Honda Civic just north of Lawrence.

Six months. Half a year.

Nearly 2/3 of Elliot's life. He was 3 1/2 months old and is now 9 1/2.

I remember being the Aaron of six months ago. I remember feeling the awful, empty pain in my stomach and chest.

A week or so after she died, I remember telling myself I would feel differently in a month, in three months, in six months. I remember focusing on the magic of time to heal wounds torn open on that April day. I remember well how I knew I could not make "it" happen any faster than it needed to on its own.

Time, the only truly precious resource, had to sweep forward. I couldn't stop time had I wanted to.

And time has brought many changes, some more wonderful than I could have hoped. It has brought grief, healing, and insight beyond what Aaron from six months ago would have imagined. It has brought a new zest for living, a new focus on life, a new perspective on the importance love and understanding and patience play in my life and will continue to play in my life. It has encouraged me to live harder than I thought possible--and I don't mean the "hard" life, but the life lived to "eleven" (with a nod to Spinal Tap).

I sit here, Aaron of October 2012, and dream six months down the road. What will that Aaron be able to say of the one now? What new measurements can he take of his life?

I plan to live and experience and grow every day until I pause again to reflect.

It's a gift for which I am so thankful.

Communication Breakdown?

Has it been seventeen days since I last posted?

Radio silence here doesn't mean silence everywhere. In fact, I'm learning to be a better communicator than I have most of my adult life. I'm learning to say what needs to be said to those who need to hear, but doing so in ways which can deliver the message without malice or self-loathing or fear or worry or vindictiveness. I'm trying to be the best communicator I can, trying to cut away the noise and deliver the essence of the message.

It's hard.

Damn hard sometimes because words don't always do what you want them to. Words can't always translate emotions so others can feel you. Words are just words, simple tools, and sometimes fit like a broad-bladed screwdriver when a tiny one would do. Words can soothe a little but not take away the pain of losing a loved one, learning of tragedy, or facing your own mortality. Words are just words.

But I will take them.

Sometimes they are all I have.

The older boys and I have begun a daily ritual of taking "five minutes" one-on-one with Dad (me). I listen while they talk. Sometimes I share, too. Max, being six and a half, has his own super self-focused perspective on the days events. Once in a while he will surprise me, throwing in a big picture perspective that stretches well past his developmental age. Mostly, we talk about PE class or making a plaid pattern in art or what happened at recess. Owen has started really opening up to some "big talks" about life and our future. He surprises me a little, but then I realize he's my kid. I've never really done life halfway and don't want them to live that way either.

I wish we all (meaning everyone on the planet) had less fear when it came to communicating with one another. Maybe the fear stems from the insufficiency of language. Maybe the fear grows when we realize there really is no way to make someone we love know, really know what that love feels like inside of us.

I don't know. I will probably never have the answer, but I can live with it.

Communication breakdown?

No. Not at all.  

Digging in the Dirt

If you live long enough, you'll come face to face with some genuine horrors. Death of loved ones, long illnesses, dishonesty and betrayal, heartache (and not the pleasant kind--because yes, I now believe ache can be pleasant)...

If you live long enough, you'll earn a few scars.

I was digging up Mom's peonies at her old house this past weekend when our neighbor sidled to me and said, "If you find any bones, we're not going to call the police."

What?

She laughed. Bones. Memories. Scars we've tried to bury in our own dirt. Painful experiences we've tried to shove down so deep and cover so completely we think--just maybe--no one will ever see them again. We don't have to show our weak moments. We can pretend those hurtful things never happened. We can live life free of the weight of history. No one has to see our scars if we cover them with enough hearty black soil.

But it never works, does it? You spend your life shoveling and shoveling and hoping it will be enough to hide the scars and the bones and memories, but your shoulders stiffen and your hands callous and crack and bleed... And the bones still come to the surface.

All of that energy wasted... for what?

The boys' principal said something wise this morning--kids are much better than adults at being open and honest about their thoughts and feelings if we give them a chance. Adults spend so much energy trying to suppress their feelings. Trying.

So much energy wasted... for what?

If the best of my short stories were about anything, they were about living in the face of pain and disappointment and horror. I've always felt hopeful about them, despite how hideous my progeny might look to a reader. I've always thought they were little stories of hope.

I'm living out loud the best I can. I'll save my energy for love and hope and gratitude. It is a conscious choice--a choice I can make as well as anyone. I'll dig up the peonies, but won't worry about the bones I find. They aren't mine, and I never buried them there.

Museum Pieces

Purging the basement, I found several artifacts of my life. Each one could sprout several stories:

I worked at Hastings Entertainment in Lawrence back in '98.  What an odd and eventful year...
Many of you remember the story about how Aimee aimed our little boat toward the Tetons despite warnings to "stay within a mile of shore"? This is my face moments before the big freak out. 
 My last day of work at Ray's IGA after my senior year in high school. I met some life-long friends at that job. Some of them dumped a bucket of water on me as I was leaving.
Yes, McKinley Middle School's mascot... sorry to my friends from across the pond, but in American history the Redcoats were the bad guys (at least during the Revolution). Of course the picture looks more like a minuteman. How about the Fighting Minutemen? I don't get it, either. Every school in Clay Center was named after an assasinated president, too... Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley. If the high school was build five years later, it would have been a Kennedy. 
More coming. I know--you're holding your breath.

I'll Take a Healthy Dose of Living Instead

In Act I, scene 3 of Hamlet, Polonius tells his daughter Ophelia, "Best safety lies in fear." He's speaking to his daughter about her relationship with Hamlet. Spoiler alert: fear or no, things weren't all that safe for Ophelia. Fear didn't protect anyone in that play.

The desire for safety breeds fear, and fear is the dream killer. Follow me down a path. The woods are darkening, but not dark yet. Noises haunt these woods: the clack of bone-dry branches knocked together by ragged breeze, the scrape of our feet over the brittle leaves on the path, the distant moan of some animal you hope is only an owl or other night bird. Scary? Maybe. But do not be mistaken; the most dangerous thing you might find here came with you.

A desire to be safe.

It's supposed to be a comfortable word, a good, warm word. Safe. But the desire to be safe often leads to fear. Living in fear leads to a life of chances not taken, dreams unfulfilled because an army of "what-ifs" march to our threshold and hold us back. Will we fall on the path at times? Yes. Will we scrape our knees? Hell yes. There will be bruises, too, and hard times, and days of slogging through mud. But there will be wholesome fulfillment and love and wonder because we took chances at which safety balked. Safety never climbed Mount Everest. Safety never crossed an ocean. Safety never landed on the moon. Safety never fell in love and stayed in love through hardship and heartache. Safety never made me send my first short story submission into the wild. All "safety" ever brought was a heaping dose of fear. All fear ever brought was extra sour to my lemonade. God knows I like a good, sweet lemonade.

There is a certain freedom which comes when fear is put in its proper place. I remember the night I gave up. Max's birthday this year--just a month after Aimee's death. It was a raw night. The boys finally hit their beds after a long evening of cake and presents. I spent an extra hour building a Lego something which lasted about three days. I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Mom reminded me we needed milk. She stayed with the boys while I ran to the store. Walking into the grocery store, it hit me. After Aimee's death, after her illness, after Max's stint at Children's Mercy, after all the home improvement nonsense and the running and running and running... I was done. Spent. Stripped bare. What did I have left to fear?

It was a turning point. A glimpse of blue sky through the black web of branches on this path. What did I have left to fear? Fear never kept anyone I loved safe. It never protected my mother, my brother or sister, my kids, Aimee... myself. Fear never kept anyone safe no matter what it promised.

So fear? Safety?

Forget you. Forget you straight to Hades.* I'll choose to live instead.

*Did you like how I went all "PG"? Well played, Aaron. Well played.

On Memory Keeping

I've had several brushes with Aimee's ghost in the last few weeks.

Let me rephrase: I've had several people at different places in their relationship with Aimee's death speak with me in the past few weeks. One person asked permission to make a tribute; one simply greeted me like it was April 2nd and not nearly five months later with no sense of the journey I've taken in those five months.Another, a parent of former students, simply gave me a hug. There were others, but these are salient and representative.

When someone dies, we each own our own grief. We have to. Mine is not the same as Aimee's mother, her father, her sister, or any of the boys, just as my relationship with Aimee wasn't the same as it was with any of those people. My relationship with her death is as different from anyone's as my relationship with her while she was alive. To call it anything else would be untruth.

What I want--I need--the world to know is that I don't own Aimee's memory. I am not the gatekeeper for anyone else's grief journey. I don't have answers for her family or the boys, former students or her co-workers. Anyone. I've only been able to find answers for myself, answers which have been painful, but real. No matter how painful, no matter how broken, we can still strive for beauty in life. We can still love. We can still live every day as though it is a precious, precious gift.

Because life is a precious gift. Every. Damn. Day.

I stood next to Aimee's body for three hours the night of the visitation. I shook hands, hugged, laughed, and cried with hundreds of people. I knew some of them; others were strangers to me. I was the conduit, the lightning rod for so much raw, barbaric emotion. The well is deep. Bottomless at times. That night, I was there as a stand in for her.

Now, I can't be her stand in any more. Aimee would have rejected the idea of me owning her memory, being the sole keeper of her legacy, just as much as she would have rejected such obscene inequality when she was alive. I never owned her. She was her own person, at times beautiful and full of life but as fragile as any of us. She had countless relationships, too, and each was precious and unique in its own way.

I lay this burden down not out of malice or ill will or exhaustion, but because it is not mine. If you had a relationship with Aimee, it is yours. Take care of it. Show it to loved ones. Tell stories and remember good times. Set her ghost free. Cling to it if you need to. Rage with it. Build an altar and let her smoke rise up forever if that is what you need. Love her memory like you loved her.