On the loss of innocence

June 27, 2009


Craig is a co-worker of mine, his daughter Addyson born just three days before Isaac. The proximity of time and vocation connected the two births, and had connected the two pregnancies, beginning in November when we first found out.

I went to Addyson’s funeral today. She was nine days old.

The proximity of the two births made her passing so jarring. So close. It’s clouded my thoughts since it happened, my mind imagining what I’d do if it was ours, my heart bruised from questioning why it had to happen to someone so cool. So genuinely caring. To someone who, despite my knowing only on a work level, had quickly become a friend.

Let’s be honest. There’s nothing more heartbreaking than the funeral of a baby; the white casket wheeled in, padded and adorned with teddy bears, small enough to leave nothing to the imagination. There is no doubt that we’re all there to mourn the death of a child. There is no question that it’s going to be hard.

Through the beveled walls and wooden pews, a wave of sadness quieted the room. Nothing – nothing at all, not a single word – can comfort a parent during this. There is only time. And as time hadn’t made its way into their lives, we could only sit. And hope.

Because so few in attendance knew Addyson on a personal level, I suspect we were all thinking the same things. About how horrible it must be to be in that position – to say goodbye to your own daughter, to attend the funeral of a person you had nurtured and raised through the womb, finally to meet her, only to see her taken away before you ever got the chance to know her.

And we were all thinking about what we’d do in that position. During a video of Addyson’s short life, I had to bury my eyes, squeezing back emotion. During a congregation-wide singing of “Jesus Loves Me,” I had to stay silent. I might have been as torn up as the family – not because I was close to Addyson, but because I’m so close to my own children. Because I don’t know what I’d do if they were taken away.

Do we feel worse about the death of a child because of the life we knew? Or because of what we never had the chance to know? When we ache over a young life lost, is it because of what we had discovered – the love we had found while they were still alive – or because of the potential love we could have shared?

It’s the innocence of parenthood – and the innocence of a newborn – that makes everything so difficult. No one believes their child will be taken – after all, in a karmic world, a newborn hasn’t had a chance to learn right from wrong, their innocence shielding them from judgment.

There are times I feel guilty. Though there’s no correlation, I can’t help but feel guilty. Isaac and Addyson were connected, though only through chance. Isaac survived. Addyson didn’t.

But that’s not fair – to us or to Addyson’s family. It’s not about who’s left, but who’s gone – it’s about losing a love before it could even be stoked, finding a soul mate only to have him or her taken. It’s about knowing what could have been – to be within reaching distance – and seeing it disappear.

So I sat, quietly, a whirlwind of feelings – concern, empathy, sorrow. Staring at the ceiling, fighting to keep it together, one person put everything in perspective. Kaiden, Addyson’s brother, a little boy who barely understands the magnitude of the event, looks up at his crying mother and tries to crack a joke. He laughs. I can only imagine a flicker of a smile passed by, a flicker Kaiden picked up on and, loudly, with innocence, asked his mother if things had passed.

“Are you better now?”

Probably not, Kaiden. Especially not now.

But who knows? In time, all of this will pass. Until then, though, it will weigh on our hearts – yes, even ours, those who only witnessed a fit of love so strong it filled the funeral home with emotion despite our distance – and it will continue to remind us of what we have in life.

To never take things for granted. To cherish each hug. Now, and until the end, whenever that is. So that if we’re ever put into this position, we can say with confidence that we’re crying for everything. The past and the future. Each day of a child’s life, and each day yet to come.

Feeling pain for both for what we had and the potential of what could have been. And lamenting the loss of innocence.

Tags: Friends, On... |

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Creative momentum

May 27, 2009


When things are going good, from a creative standpoint, they typically continue to go good. One thing leads to another, and before long you’ve spilled out several great things in a matter of days. It’s the nature of creativity – it feeds off of itself.

In all things creative, momentum drives us from average to heady.

When I encounter these peaks of momentum, I cherish them. Like anyone who considers themselves part of the creative industry – whether a freelance artist or a copy slinger – I understand the fragility of creative momentum. It’s easy to rest when you’re at that peak, to coast for a while as your mind continues to work. But you pay for it later.

Oh, man. Do you pay for it later.

Let’s quickly define something. By “creativity,” I’m talking about the act of creating something original. Not just thinking quirkily, but – in my case - actually writing something, or photographing something.

Thanks to our recent move and a lack of opportunity, the past month has seen my creative momentum hit a screeching halt. It’s hit the bottom, begun on the next hill in earnest, and rolled backward, resting finally in a valley of uninspired funk. Some call it a rut. I call it a chasm.

Some may find solace in this. It has certainly brought me back to earth. During those times when I have convinced myself that there is such a thing as creative talent, that it’s not simply a tweak of perspective and is an honest skill (and trust me, despite my sarcastic leanings otherwise, I rarely feel confident enough to claim a heightened creative talent) it’s humbling to find myself at the bottom again.

Struggling for ideas. As if creativity was something you had to work at.

And there’s the rub. Even the most creative people have to work at this. Even those to whom writing – or photography, design, music, acting – come naturally.

In fact, the people who work the hardest at being creative are the people who are the most successful at it.

They’re successful because they never stop trying. During their downtime, they stay creative. They continue thinking. They continue working. They are always working.

Charging up the same hill. Gaining speed to overcome the troughs. Continuously thinking harder to maintain the momentum of creativity, to gain speed, to leave the uninspired moments behind.

For me, it’s one blog post, a handful of pictures, and a few projects for work. Nothing amazing. But at least I can say I’m finally beginning the climb out of this chasm.

Again. And certainly not for the last time.

Tags: On..., Photography, Writing |

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On moving

May 17, 2009


I haven’t written anything in a while, and I have a lot to say.

You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been three days since we said goodbye to our first home.

And I can’t help but be surprised how much I miss it.

Though we spent the past two and a half months working to buy and sell a home, the move crept up on us. Despite the culmination of events – events that led us from desperate to frantic to endlessly busy in just a few weeks – I am still shocked by how empty our house could become, how it happened so fast, how I was completely unprepared to let go.

How, despite spending months trying to get rid of it, I still wished we could have made it work out. Stay a little longer. Hang out one last time.

It took two trucks and a handful of eager movers to completely gut our house. When it was finished, I walked from room to room, snapping pictures of my favorite features, taking it all in – as empty and clean as when we moved in, with little change aside from seven years worth of wear.

Kerrie shed a few tears. But I kept myself insulated from it, fearing that I’d shed the same tears. I looked forward, not behind; blinded by anticipation, I did what I could to grind out the hours. I unpacked the house several times in my sleep. I imagined where things would go, what I could do, what surprises were in store.

But that last night, I couldn’t help myself. “Here I am,” I thought. “My last night in my first home.”

Our first home. Where we planned our marriage. Brought home a dog. Trained a dog. Nursed little nips from a dog. We got married and bought cars and became adults. We formed our careers though several hiccups. I began writing in the dormer. I began reading again in the dormer. I learned about my new job in the dormer and privately celebrated in the dormer.

It was Sierra’s first home. Our first child. Her first steps, first words, first teeth, first joys and pains. She learned how to be a person in that house. She fell into our lives in that house.

There are a handful of things I’ll always remember. The creaky floors outside of Sierra’s room. The nights sitting in a rocking chair, with only the glaring light of the hall illuminating my book as I lulled Sierra to sleep. The night I listened to John Edwards and Dick Cheney as they debated in the summer of 2004. And the night I watched the first politician I truly believed in elected President four years later.

A lot of life was lived in those walls. But I’m thankful for one thing: the first years in that house were something Kerrie and I had to ourselves. They are memories we hold closely, memories that only we can claim. And likewise, that house is something that we can share with Sierra – a reminder of the days before our family had become four, something special that Sierra gets to remember, to her ability, in the upcoming years.

This new house begins a new chapter. In a few weeks, baby boy will be born. Life will get more complicated, will require more time and more space. And with our new home, we have it. It’s the perfect marking point for what we had and what we are about to become.

We are lucky. We found a house we wanted, put our house on the market, and were lucky enough to still snag it months later. We were able to make it quick. Harried, but painless. We were able to find people to help us – people who we thank for all eternity, from our families to our friends, from our Realtor Briana to the kind souls who owned our home before we moved in.

I miss the old house. But I love this one just as much. And once I come to grips with the idea that my memories are still around, despite the new location, I’ll slowly forget about what we had and focus on only what we have.

All of our stuff is here. It’s strewn across the house, scattered throughout each room like beads of mercury, dispersing in every direction, seeking level ground, but it’s here all the same.

And room by room, things are looking more comfortable. More like what we left behind. More like home.

Really, it’s already there. We’re here. We’ll continue to grow here, will celebrate new lives and new milestones.

This is our new base. Our new home. All that’s changed is the location.

Tags: Career, Friends, Home, Isaac, On..., Vilhauer |

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One quiet corner

May 5, 2009


Everywhere I turn, a box. A human. A pile of belongings belonging either to us or to a visitor. The urge to put things away balances with the urge to give up and hope things will simply put themselves away.

Over the last four days, our house has shrunk. Boxes are collecting in the corners like spider webs, climbing the walls; filled and taped and labeled, they hold our stuff tight, promising to fit neatly in organized rows when it’s their turn to be loaded into the moving truck.

At the same time, Kerrie’s family is staying with us, in town to celebrate the life of the family patriarch, our house serving as a base for her parents and sister during the difficult grieving time.

Despite the extra people and the extra stuff – and especially the extra mess – there are corners of the house that seem empty. Our computer desk and our bookshelves have been wiped clean, ridded of all non-essentials, serving as the base model of a perfect office. It’s in this area I sit. Just to get away for a second.

Before I go back to packing. Navigating a house we’ve suddenly outgrown, looking forward to a move but dreading the act, knowing that despite our love for our new home, and despite the bonds we hold with our family, this house that we’ve outgrown will always be our first.

Though it hardly measures up, the last few days have put things into perspective. If I we can let go of the ones we love the most, we can surely move on from this home.

Tags: Home, On... |

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On losing a great grandfather.

May 1, 2009


I never knew any of my great grandfathers.

Most of us probably never got the chance. Nature doesn’t make it easy, and despite advances in technology and medicine, it’s still difficult to make it to 80 years old, a time when you’re most likely to have great grandchildren. For men, it’s even harder.

I never knew any of my great grandfathers, but Sierra’s known two: Great Grandpa Joe and Great Grandpa Burt, both on Kerrie’s side.

Yesterday, Great Grandpa Burt passed away. Suddenly, without warning, in his sleep. Peacefully and with dignity.

I’ll admit, I’m without easy words. Though I’ve gone through this before with my own grandfather, it seems so foreign – to see a man who has been so large a part of so many lives just leave the world without warning, leaving his wife of 63 years – Kerrie’s grandma Mardell – and the rest of us behind, lamenting, celebrating and remembering.

A World War II veteran. A wildly successful businessman. One of the kindest people I’ve ever had the privilege to know – a man who instilled caring and pride and common sense into every member of his family, from his children to his grandchildren.

His range of influence reaches farther than anyone I’ve known. Every name leads to another, each handshake holding the memory of a thousand more. Burt saw things I’ll never see, lived lives I’ll never imagine. Took everything as it came, with knife between teeth, crawling through life when needed and relaxing when the time was right. He fought wars I’ll never fight, flew next to French authors and catered ice cream to South Dakota’s future leaders.

He held every memory close, held each smile as if it would escape him. Manifesting in more of a frown, struggling to stay hidden despite the grasping urge to be set free, each smile came wryly, as if a present wrapped tightly. And once it broke through, it was absolutely beaming, each tooth seeming to smile itself, both eyes blinding in their joy.

Smiles that most often came from the screech of a little girl or boy. One of his great grandchildren – kids that naturally gravitated toward him despite their shyness, despite their need to stay latched to mommy.

That’s what always amazed me. Sierra was a different child around Burt. During her most shy days, she would gather up the courage to muster toward Burt, melting immediately into his arms, grasping as his glasses and gazing into those smiling eyes. The bond was evident. Though both probably never thought about, they were part of something special. Something legendary; a relationship spanning four generations.

I can’t attest to much more than what I know – that Burt was a brilliant, soft hearted man who had lived a long and illustrious life. Sprightly. Animated. Filled with vigor even as the years caught up with him. Always ready with a sly smile, always ready with a grandfatherly concern.

But I can attest to something special I witnessed in the past year and a half: a relationship so unique and rare that most don’t get to experience it. The relationship between a great grandfather and great granddaughter.

Every person hopes to live long enough to see just one of his or her great grandchildren. Burt was lucky enough to have six.

And Sierra was lucky enough to be one of them.

Sierra and Great Grandpa Burt

“When you look up at the sky at night, since I’ll be living on one of them, since I’ll be laughing on one of them, for you, it’ll be as if all the stars are laughing. You’ll have stars that can laugh!”

And he laughed again.

“And when you’re consoled (everyone is eventually consoled), you’ll be glad you’ve known me. You’ll always be my friend. You’ll feel like laughing with me. And you’ll open your windows sometimes just for the fun of it… And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you’re looking up at the sky. Then you’ll tell them, ‘Yes, it’s the stars. They always make me laugh!”

- The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Tags: Grandpa Boyer, On..., Sierra |

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At 5:30 am

April 24, 2009


At 5:30 in the morning, even the biggest city seems like a ghost town.

It’s dark enough that, through the blurred vision of early morning sleepiness, you could mistake it for evening. Traffic lights blink red and yellow. Buildings continue to sleep, their internal lights barely making enough light to illuminate the offerings inside. Every intersection is a graveyard, your vehicle the only remaining entity left as you patiently look both ways and proceed.

It’s not completely abandoned, though. Other people like me – still half-asleep, trudging into work to make up time or clock in for an early day – slowly cruise the streets, their headlights creeping along the pavement.

They, like me, are experiencing the new day before most others. By the time Kerrie wakes up, today being her day off, the morning will have been touched by thousands, a seemingly fresh awakening already feeling the effect of civilization’s restlessness.

Because last night was warm, I roll down the windows. I turn up my radio. I turn onto Minnesota Avenue and continue on my way, wondering what the day will bring, enjoying a band I had long forgotten, excited to be alive and, for the moment, alone in a ghost town.

Tags: On..., Sioux Falls |

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A not-so-brief aside on the value of the humanities as seen by someone involved with the humanities

March 21, 2009


When I was young, I fell in love with books. It might have been Sterling North’s Rascal, or it might have been before that. I don’t know the exact point, but I know it started early.

Despite my love – despite the urge to read and collect and plan – I often let my reading lapse. I wanted it, but I didn’t pursue it. Whether it was a busyness or simple apathy, books were collected but weren’t read. My intentions were perfect, but my actions were failing.

It took a concerted effort for me to get my reading back up. I had to look at myself. Make time for reading. Reallocate the precious resource of time.

When I get together with the board of the South Dakota Humanities Council, I’m reminded of this lesson. Not because it’s about reading, but because it’s an example of humanities support as a larger picture.

Humanities, by definition, is the documentation of cultural memories – history, and literature, and archives. Fiction, non-fiction, anything that falls under archiving ideas. It’s an educated group of ideals, and it’s often offered up for free.

But the documentation – the writing and research and creativity – takes time.

It takes resources.

And that’s often the disconnect.

Like I did with my books, we as a society want to squirrel away the humanities. We want to collect and offer and create more and more. It strengthens the fabric of our communities and it adds to our quality of life. But it’s often difficult for us to reallocate resources to make it work. For my books it was time. For the humanities, it’s both time and funds.

Human nature is such that we can’t imagine life without words and history, but we don’t necessarily want to go forward in protecting it. It’s always there, naturally. It’s just something that we take for granted.

History never changes. But it disappears.

Literature is never forgotten. But it is neglected.

It’s why, when I get together with this group of people – the South Dakota Humanities Council, none of which are like me, none of which share an identical world view but share one common love for the documentation of ideas and history, in archiving old worlds and creating new ones – I swell with pride.

I realize that, though I can’t directly fund the humanities, I at least have an opportunity to protect them. And as a young male, I stand as my generation’s representative for the humanities – an idea that is wrongly perceived as an old dusty group of history books and boring tomes.

I can’t offer the funds, but I can offer my time. Hoping that those who can help on a financial level will. And hoping that those who have the love for the humanities and understand the value – hopefully every one of us – can at least give their time as well.

The pitch is as easy as making the reallocation on your own. Attend and support programs. Buy books and support authors. Give to your library, or volunteer. Throw a few bucks in the donation box at the museum.

And if you’re in love with words and history and books and all that the humanities encompasses as much as I am, do what your heart leads you to. No matter your age. No matter your gender.

Help me prove to the world that the humanities isn’t as negligible as we’re led to believe.

Tags: Books, On..., Writing |

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