K.J. Stevens's Blog, page 9

a glimpse of morning

Early morning. I turn on the porch light to feed stray cats. There’s a puddle of blood. A big one.

I remember the red well. From hunting. From accidents. From intent. Just blood. It’s an alarming sight first thing in the morning. And seeing it there, near the warming house we put out for feral cats in the cold, makes me think of the Momma cat that’s been on and off our porch for weeks. Did birthing not go as planned?

There was a body. I see that. How it laid on the old wooden boards that have felt footsteps of creatures come and go over many years. But there’s no hair as if cats made a kill. No skin or flesh or bits of anything. No trails of blood from newborn kittens seeking warmth. No paw prints.

Back inside, I’m at the sink, filling the coffee pot with hot water. We’ve had opossum on the porch, but they seem to get along with the cats just fine. I’ve seen skunks, too, but rarely and if one was involved, it’s likely they would have run away, spraying their stink. Then, I think of owls. Wide-eyed, majestic predators. It’s possible one could be in town, near us. I’ve heard about more owl sightings in the past year than ever before.  But maybe, I’m just listening more.  Suddenly, I think of our house as a kitty bait pile. A hungry owl could feast every night by simply sitting on a nearby rooftop and waiting patiently for the right moment. Kittens playing. Cats on the prowl.

On the porch, I pour hot water over the blood. Some seeps through the cracks. Some—bright red globules—float away over the edge. The rest, the kind found by crime scene investigators, bonds to whatever invisible blood bonds to, and waits.

But this isn’t a crime. It’s nature. The evolution of life. There’s a lot happening I don’t see. Outside at night while we sleep. Inside at morning while we wake.

Every day, I stretch and rise slower than I used to. Splash cold water over the lines of my face. Put toothpaste on a brush to run over my teeth. Sometimes twice because I never want to lose them. Once I’m revived and recognize the person in the mirror, I return to bed, but only for a few seconds to hug and kiss my warm wife.

Then it’s down the hallway to stir kids that never want to leave their dreams. I get it. I understand. Most days, I don’t want to leave mine, either. I think of that as I run my aching hand atop the railing and descend the creaky staircase so I can look out the window to get that first glimpse of everything before it changes again.

I take a deep breath in, push a deep breath out, then turn on the light.

~ KJ

rambling on a snow day – bus moments

A few days ago, I set up the basketball hoop in the driveway. My kids and I played. Around the world. Horse and pig. It’s been all shitty weather since. Not an issue, but tiresome. This is living in Michigan. Cold, warm, sun, snow, rain, hail, a breeze, a blustery wind storm—all of it can happen in a day’s time.

This morning, we wake to a thin layer of wet snow on slush and ice. And no school. This is where I am reminded of being a kid, helping get our bus unstuck one winter day. Just a group of kids pushing on a big yellow bus on a backroad. We loved it. It was fun. Part of the everyday adventure of a kid living in the country. Not that the bus got stuck often, but growing up in the 70s and 80s in a rural area seemed to put people in situations they simply aren’t in today. Not better. Not worse. Just different.

We got the bus out. The driver was ecstatic. We were only a little late for school. Some of us dirty, some of us wet. All of us excited and proud of what we had done. That would never fly today. Our bus driver would have been crucified. She was one of the best, strongest, most independent people I’ve ever encountered in my life. Fierce. Funny. Took no bullshit. She hugged us. Asked about what was going on at school, at home. She brought treats to us. Presents. Even let us play our cassette tapes on the bus. But she also broke up fights, kicked kids off buses, and stopped drunk parents from stepping onto the bus to snatch their kids up and take them to God knows where. She was a good human. She made me feel safe, secure, and made going to and from school tolerable. Today, some fame junkie would have Instagrammed her into jail.

That’s what I think about while sipping coffee. Waking slowly. Moving from here—our life of comfort and stability—to my childhood. Growing up.  

A snow day now would not be a snow day then. We wouldn’t sleep in, either. Already, my brothers and I would be dressing to get out in it. The snow. The cold. The new day of possibility. If we had a fancy portable basketball hoop like the one in our driveway, we’d shovel so we could play. But we didn’t have as many distractions. Information so ready at our fingertips.

These keys. Doing their trick. Pulling me back there. Into whatever it was. As if it was a life separate from the one I live now. And it’s not. I’m still there, playing in the snow with my brothers. Riding that school bus on good days and bad. And I’m here now. And I’ll be here tomorrow. And so will my kids.

This experience. It changes and rolls out and over us in ways we don’t always understand. We can’t know the value of what we’re in, it seems, until we’re out of it. So, I hope, my kids will write about their lives one day. That they will remember their snow days and relive their bus moments, whatever they may be.

~ KJ

simple depth

For me. For you. The blue overlays the white, but we fight for clarity as we march toward destiny—an everchanging, growing evolution of experience. We won’t settle, except for slow times when recharging is necessary. An hour on the couch to zone out or laugh, be amazed, or afraid. Two chapters in a chair to feed the soul. Music—always music—in the kitchen, the office, the cars. There’s not much time left, but all the time in the world. Our fortune grows every day. Through kindness and good deeds and doing the best we can for us—all the living and undead—encapsulated within this space. So, we monitor the surface but go deep as necessary to retrieve treasures. One of us will stay watch while the other finds what others are afraid to discover. We will wrestle it free, hold it tight, and rise to show the world. Because that’s what we’re here for. That’s what we’re meant to do. There’s magic everywhere and the finest finds are not always hidden. They are within the depths of simplicity. The underside of the leaf. The tips of earthworms. The sound of swans as they sail through the air. We can’t give up or sleep too long because there is always this work that needs to be done. For me. For you. For the sake of clarity.

~ KJ

bird moments

If you feel you’ve got it figured out, you don’t.

That attitude may provide comfort, stability—a way for you to look around at your walls, your possessions, and say—Boy, I’ve got it good. But this is only temporary. And your comfort level can quickly erode if you walk out into the real world believing you have the answers, or worse yet—that you can provide answers. From that, anxiety and frustration can grow.

This is natural. We don’t like to feel that we don’t have control. We don’t want to believe that our happiness can be affected by others. But it can. It is. And we let it happen. If our lives are defined by the expectations and roles of others, we will not be happy. Hard-lined views on adhering to structure and following the rules create turmoil. That’s probably why there’s so much unrest in the world.

Of course, there’s more goodness. More beauty, calm, and peace than most will ever recognize.

A sparrow lands behind me in the driveway as I brush snow from my car. It looks at me. Moves closer. I look at it. Move closer. Soon, we meet. As incredible as it sounds, I pet the bird, then pick it up. We speak silently to each other. It is perfectly fine, it says. It is not sick. It is only a bird. Being brave. It knows when to fly, when to stay. I’ll learn this lesson too, it says. Then it is gone. I look over my shoulder and there is my wife, watching through the big old window. I’m not sure how much she has seen, but it doesn’t matter. Nobody understands what is happening. And it is the scariest thing in the world.

Oh, what a mistake to assume. People don’t understand me. Nobody gets me.

As if I’m the only one that has clarity. Has special moments in this wide, wide world.

It’s just not true.

How many times have we dismissed them? And how much of that dismissal—ignorance—is because we’re not meant to know? If we knew what kept one’s blood red, imagine the power we would have. Consider the chaos. The love. Anything could happen.

But wait. Anything can and does and will continue to happen.  That’s why it’s important to avoid the trickery of comfort. The quiet stifling nature of roles and expectations that prop up the structure we move within. It’s important to keep questioning. To watch, listen, and observe. To get out into the world on your own and with others. You will never have the same moment as another person, not even if you are in the same place at the same time, within the same experience.  Because you are you. So, to expect others to understand you, to believe you, to know you is a tall task. And, it’s not fair.

They want to be heard and recognized. And they’re scared too. Maybe not all the time, but this moving from day to day isn’t always easy. Shit, indeed, does happen. And it’s important to remember others are at it as well. Doing whatever it takes to figure it out, get through, and be as prepared as possible for whatever, whenever it comes.  

So, be happy with what you have but strive to be happy without it. Revel in the fact that loved ones and strangers are around you. Keeping watch. Closer than you think. More often than you know.

Maybe even looking out a big window on another a cold, winter day, having a bird moment of her own.

~ KJ

they’re growing up

artwork – old blue – © 2022 by Rita Stevens

All we need

we’ll take with us

when we go.

When we leave this place.

Move on to the next.

So, it’s okay

to enjoy

the plastic and metal,

the concrete and virtual.

Go ahead,

experience the highs

and lows.

Run,

walk.

Freefall.

Taste the salt of sweat and tears—our ocean.

Remember the puppies,

the ferret,

the porch full of stray cats,

a mouse in a box,

and birds.

Us, taking them all in,

no matter what.  

Don’t forget the plastic turtle sandbox,

swing set,

and trampoline.  

Trips to Bronner’s,

soccer fields,

our fishing spot.

Animal ice cream cones,

silks,

and

Camp Peace.

The walks

and hikes

and drives,

and how we always came back

to the big, old blue house.

That invisible connection

that will never break

and will always bring us

back

together again.

~ KJ

patterns to possibilities

woman in red – heading home © 2021 by Rita L Stevens

Can’t go back. Not yet. Maybe one day. We’ll discover this is the metaverse. A computer program. A dream. Or not. The fact is even if we recreated the past, it wouldn’t be the past. That moment. It may feel the same, look and sound the same, but it is not that moment. There is only one moment every time there’s a moment.

Like now.

And we let the moments—our time in this experience—pass. With or without thought. In it or out of it. After all, if one was tuned into every moment, how long could one function? How long would they last? They may end up giving up on everything. Disregarding rules. Forgetting expectations. Abandoning relationships. Walking the streets, muttering to themselves, smiling and toothless, or pounding fists into the pavement. Fearful. Alone. Just voices and light and dark, warm and cold. Searching for fuel to keep the body moving, at least for a few days more.

Most of us fit into the system. Run along as best as we can within the structure. Marking days off the calendar. Checking off to-do lists and bucket lists and shopping lists. Identifying each other by our numbers, our belongings, the rungs we have or have not reached on the ladder to success. Some strange place or feeling that we’re supposed to have if we do this, that, and the other things.

But when we focus too much we can get just as lost as we do when we don’t focus at all. And so, we balance between today and yesterday. We do what needs to be done with an eye on tomorrow. Buckled into our routines, but aware there’s more to come if we make better choices, help others, make even the slightest step outside of our comfort zone.

A different path to work. A different chair at the dinner table. A subtle change in the pattern that shifts progress and alters our course, so we move beyond the pull of the past—wanting to be there again—and step, ever so slightly, into the possibilities of the unknown.

~ KJ

the in-between

Feels like it will never get warm. I can’t bitch though. It’s only January. We have plenty of cold yet to go. Shoveling, scraping. Numb fingers and toes. But that’s fine. That’s what we’ve signed on for. If we didn’t want to be here, we’d move.

Right?

The virus rhetoric is amping up. Politicians are positioning. I’m being told things are bad, bad, bad, but I’m choosing to feel good. Fuck ‘em, as they say. The less I tune into the bullshit, the less shitty I feel. It’s not as hard or tricky or as manipulated as I once believed it to be. It, quite frankly, depends on me and how I react to the world.

Do what is right. That’s the CODE.

And by now, at 48, it’s easy to see that even though people, moments, and experiences are complex, the answer is simple. Do what’s right. And most of the time, that has nothing to do with me.

Getting outside myself is key. To health. Happiness. And how well I navigate and participate in the world. I thrive on watching and listening, but no longer am I happy as a bystander. I’m facilitating positive change as best I can, one decision at a time.

But people want mob mentality. They want me to belong to a cause, a side, a movement. But that’s not going to happen. I am moving, slowly but surely, on my own. Navigating my days with family, and goodness in mind, so that all of us have opportunities to grow and learn and put good into the world.

That’s what it’s about. Not the temperature. Not illness. Not life or death. But the in-between. The part here, while the lights are still on.

~ KJ

come down

Feed your brain and body better ingredients and better experiences.

Don’t lose sight of stars. The horizon. The patience and magic that rolls a cloud into a whale, a penguin, a buffalo.  

Pick up a book. Dedicate yourself to one page a day. Remove yourself from the narrative you’ve created and discover another.

Remember, there are invisible curative properties in autumn’s early morning air. So, get out. Walk your neighborhood, your property, a trail. Look at the ground—always there, holding you. Waiting. Even when you have risen thousands of feet thinking you’ve conquered gravity.

~ KJ

one year later — looking up

Big Dipper above as I walk to the trash can by the road. A bag of cat shit in hand. But the sky—full-blown with sparkling pinholes of light—gets me right for the day.

This is an opportunity.

Be mindful. Aware. Listen more today than you did yesterday. Learn.

And forgive.

They know not what they do. Though they should.

Common sense. Think before you speak. Be kind. Courageous. Do what you say you’re going to do.

I said I’d stop drinking alcohol a year ago today. I did it. Doing that—ceasing the act—was easy. Everything that comes along with getting back to basics, facing life as it is and not how you want it to be—that’s not so easy.

But, most often, it’s not the act that’s the culprit. It’s everything else that’s been put in play—some of it your own doing, some of it innate—and that, deciphering the narrative you’ve created, that’s the hard part. The sobering part, if you will.

Once you start taking a hard look at yourself, measuring your decisions, weighing consequences, it’s easy to not drink. It’s easy to turn the other cheek. It’s easy to believe in others, and most of all, it’s easy to believe in you. And once you get on that path of believing in yourself, you pick up steam day by day, and become, in a way, unstoppable.

There are endless opportunities to live a better life. To get happy. Sure, there are moments that are still utter shit. That’s how it’s supposed to be. You don’t learn much when everything’s roses.

And there’ll be days…days when you’re teetering on that familiar edge, wondering if you’re gonna make it. Doubting yourself and your ability to help create conditions that foster safety, comfort, and good for your family—for your wife and kids. But clarity will come and balance will be restored with strange, everyday, magical moments.

Like stepping outside on an early Wednesday morning. Feeling the cold. Letting that clean air into your lungs, into your blood, and looking up. At all those stars. So bright, patient, and knowing.

~ KJ

Dad’s Dirty Deeds

Dads do a lot of dirty work. I know I do. It’s my role. I do dirty deeds so others don’t have to. Not all Dads are like this, but also, I am certainly not a shining example of what a Dad should be. I try, though, and my aim is to get better as time goes on.

Mistakes, I’ve made plenty. And I will continue to do so.

Last night, or this morning rather, it was Astro in his kennel at about ten to four in the morning.

My daughter, Jovi, woke me.

“Astro’s been barking and howling for ten minutes.”

She delivered the news wrapped in a blanket. All I could see was her little round face. After her report, she turned and walked back to her room. Poor kid. Twelve-year olds need their rest. Especially on a school night.

I went into the basement to discover Astro had shit the bed.

Now, he was attempting to pull the old gray towel that sits atop the kennel through the bars of his door. In fact, he’d gotten about half of it through. He’s smart, but I’m not sure how smart. It sure appeared that he was trying to get a clean towel into the kennel so he could sleep on it.

I spent the next half an hour with him and Spindle, his life-partner. Her kennel is next to his, so she had a rough go of it, as well. Eventually, after Astro crapped and crapped and crapped outside, and after Spindle made sure he was okay, we all went up to the empty apartment above our garage. It’s been vacant for months. The family, we use it sometimes for homework, watching movies, playing the PS4, and napping. I rolled up the rug in there and we went to bed. All of us slept soundly until the alarm went off at 5:50 am. He still hasn’t eaten. Spindle looks tired. I am tired too, but I’ll nap later. We’ll be just fine.

Anybody can get up in the middle of the night. I get it. I’m not special, but it does make me think of all the other deeds I have done and that I do. The litter boxes. The cat shit and puke on the floors. The toilets—cleaning and plunging. The sewer pipes. Lifting. Dragging. Hammering, nailing, digging, bracing, carrying, shouldering. The dead pets and animals—ours and those belonging to someone else, Mother Nature, God. Odd how many there have been.

I have amends to make. I don’t feel the guilt about living like I used to. Sobriety has opened up the light. I see it now. Feel it. And it helps me through. Everything will be okay. I’m good. Making the right decisions.

We have all done bad things, got off track. What’s important is that we get back up on the path or make a new road if we have to.

And that is what I have done. What I’m doing.

I’ll be watching Astro today as I work, paper towels and household cleaner at the ready.

~ KJ