many dimensions of love

from K.J. Stevens' upcoming book, CUTTING TEETH

many dimensions of love

 

   I want to write about a time in my Saint Paul days. When I was not yet 30. Thought I had the world by the balls. When I was sure that I’d be somebody. That I could do or say anything because for me, the rules did not apply. I want to slip into that booth. Hold that 32 ounce mug of Leinenkugel Honey Weiss. Hear Lunde and J.C., the music, the conversation. I want to smell the smoke. Taste the air and know all I knew then.

   Which was nothing. But nothing meant everything and emptiness made me full. And when you set out to creatively deconstruct your life from ground to sky and back again, nothing and the hollow space it creates can be the most valuable thing you’ll ever find.

   But that’s me. Or it used it be. And that was my Code. Tear it all down. Past the walls and studs. Past the foundation. Through the septic, below the drain field, and deep to where it begins. In the dark, most basic elements. Good and evil and the many dimensions of love.     

   It was in one of those booths, in one of those bars, that I once told J.C.—a single mother of a four year old boy—that a person could never have success in life if they chose parenting over passion. I was humming with alcohol. Teetering on that edge where everything feels like an epiphany.

   “I don’t want to marry or have kids or do any of that shit we’re supposed to do,” I said.

   J.C. sipped her beer. Lunde chuckled. As usual, they let me continue. Dig myself deeper. Bury myself with my own shovel.

   “People that marry and get sucked into fulfilling the roles of mother and father, hubby and wife—they spend their lives getting dumber and fatter while the world keeps trucking on. We aren’t meant to sit and settle. We are meant for greater things.”

   Lunde leaned back and smiled. As usual, he was along for the ride. Helping me reach great heights by letting me plummet to the bottom.

   J.C. adjusted her shirt, tugged at her shorts. She was growing increasingly uncomfortable.   

   “I think you’re wrong, K.J.,” she said.          

   I waited. Polished off my mug. Held it up as the waitress passed so I could get another. J.C.’s cheeks went pink. She bit her lip as she took off her glasses.    

   “No I’m not wrong, J.C.”    

   “Yes, you are. You make it sound like all anyone should ever do is what they want to do, but that’s not how it works.”

   “You say that because you have a kid,” I said.

   “Of course, that’s why I say that! I love my boy!”

   “And you should, and you’re a great Mom, and that’s all fine and dandy, but what I’m saying is this—people make choices. They pour into their passion or they pour into their family. You are either a hell of a parent or really fucking good at something. You can’t be both.”

   “That’s absurd,” she said. “You’re talking out of your ass.”  

   I laughed. It was good to see J.C. jacked up this way. Twisted up in knots. But I was firm in my stance. I had seen her with her son. I had met him. He was a beautiful kid. Well-behaved. Fun. Respected his Mom. But J.C. would never be a great, successful painter, or writer, or musician. She would not be a great quilter, bowler, or chef. She would never really be great at anything—not to the point it would support her family and maintain balance and harmony.

   “It’s just not possible,” I said.          

   Lunde leaned forward. Tapped his empty mug on the table.

   “Another round,” he said. “And let’s do some shots.”         

   And I’m sure we did. And the conversation moved on. And J.C. and Lunde may have forgotten that night. But I have not. Because now, I’m everything I never expected to be.

   Pushing 40. Married. Two kids. Living a small town life in the place me and my wife were born and raised. It is like a dream. This is not reality. It can’t be. We have it good. We’re doing well. We’re healthy, comfortable, happy.

   There is this—the ache, the itch, the writing—and now I can see that what I had said ten years ago was something, indeed, shot right out of my ass. J.C. was right. And in his casual silence, Lunde was right too. He let me wield that fucking shovel night after night. Again and again. Until I was so buried in my own self-centered bullshit, that there was nothing to do, but dig my way out.

   And I have. It’s taken years. Things are not the same as they were in those Saint Paul days. They can’t be and never will be. And for that, I am glad.

   And as my wife wrangles two screaming and crying kids into the house from playing outside on a chilly October Sunday, I know there are different measures of success. Many dimensions of love. Being a good parent and a solid husband is what helps. Not only here in our little world, but in the whole scheme of things as we push along, fighting the good fight, working to tip the scales so that good wins out over evil. So I keep the faith. Stay strong. And believe. So my wife and my kids know I still have gas in my tank. That I can and will do it all. Build great things. With a hammer and nails. Shovel and sweat. And that these words will last and keep us safe from the empty, hollow space inside.