Faithful readers know that one of my personal holy days is fast approaching: Stross’s birthday. As usual he began his countdown immediately after Easter. Actually, he began counting down the days to May 5 right after St. Patrick’s Day, but I told him I wasn’t ready to hear of it until after Easter. So, he counted quietly – but not privately – until this past week.
Part of Stross’s countdown ritual involves making a list of presents he would like to receive. Mr. Digital Savvy is a fierce online shopper who regularly sends me gift ideas. If the date on the calendar is between May 6 and December 24, the email subject line is about Christmas. If the date is between December 26 and May 4, the subject line is “My Birthday.”
Most interesting are the conversations about his plans for the big day. There is always a theme and always a need for pomp to go with his happy circumstance. When he turned 18, his special day was all about registering to vote and registering for the draft. This year he turns 21. You can imagine the plans he has in store. We have talked him down from a trip to Las Vegas. But I have a feeling if there isn’t at least one game of “21” happening for him sometime that day, he will feel cheated. Mark and I also know we will have to deal with that other rite of passage that so many 21-year-olds grab onto with fervor. My parents treated me to a classy dinner with cocktails. I hope something similar will suffice for him as well.
No one can grasp the magnitude of this annual celebration unless you spend time with Stross regularly. Birthday plans punctuate his daily life each Springtime with conversations sprouting like fragrant buds. This one happened this morning. I was driving him to an appointment, and he was seated in his spot in our van – middle seat, passenger side.
S: Hey, Mom, did you get the email I sent you today with the birthday gift I want?
J: Yes. I saw the link, but I did not open it. What is it?
S: A video set. "The Adventures of Sinbad."
J: You have already sent me a lot of links for gifts to buy, and you know that I have bought some already. How many gifts do you think you should get for your birthday?
S: 21.
J: Oh, really?
S: I will be 21, so ...
J: One for each year, huh?
S: Umhum. (His smile can be heard in his hum.)
J: (pause, then) So, will you get me 48 presents this year?
S: (pause) Oh, crap...
J: (smiles that her point was seemingly made)
S: (a bit longer pause than before, then a breathe of resolve) So, Momma, do you think we can try that sometime?
Ah, Stross. The wonder of him; the eternal hopefulness that eeks from every cell of his being.
He will not be getting 21 presents from us this year. But no matter how long his life, I am certain that he will continue to lobby for new ways to celebrate and new gifts that he “really needs. I do, Momma. Come on … ”
Oh, Stross. What will we do with you? What would we do without you? In all times, in all places, in all days, in all ways: Celebrate life!
It is creeping up on me this year, but earlier than typical. At first, I didn’t recognize what was occurring. Too many other life distractions seemed likelier culprits of my demise.
Yet I’m fairly certain I’ve accurately diagnosed my condition: Stross’ birthday is nearly here. Therefore, my annual personal performance review has begun, and I have no idea how I am doing.
The symptoms have basically remained the same for 20 years.
A fleeting thought triggers a moment of breathlessness – the kind that happens when I get caught off-guard but then regain a sense of presence with a deep cleansing breath.
Or a lingering thought leads me to a land far away, into an existence not yet known, and I languish between a grief that is familiar to me and a type of sorrow I’ve yet to identify.
And then there are the unannounced tears.
I awoke early this morning with a solitary, quiet tear falling from the outside corner of my right eye. It made a cool trek down my cheek before landing on my pillow. Instantly I traveled back in time to a hospital bed where I once laid in the same position with a river of tears quietly traveling from cheek to pillow.
Twenty years ago on the fifth day of May, my life changed inexplicably. Strangely, I have never been hung up on the “why” of it. However, I think I will always wrestle with the “how.”
26Then he said, “Let me go, for the day is breaking.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” Genesis 32:26
Like Jacob – stressed with the prospect of encountering Esau and thereby coming face-to-face with his past and his future – I wrestle, praying that the One with Whom I wrestle is God and not some shadow of a former me.
Bless me, I demand. Help me retain a sense of hope. Give me a future that matches my present reality. I will not give up until I am assured I am blessed. I will wrestle as long as I have to.
Yet I know I cannot escape such an encounter unscathed. I know it means I will forever walk wounded toward the future my family and I will share. But I believe the blessing will be worth it. At least it has been for 20 years.
I am in for a long bout of wrestling this year. I can feel it. But I won’t let go. I refuse to. Not until I am blessed.
I spent my 46th birthday doing something I would never have imagined in any previous year of life: I went to a KISS concert.
I had a fabulous time.
Perhaps I needed to wait until I was in my 40s for such an experience. Perhaps I simply wasn’t ready for the wonder that is glam rock when I was a teen. As I recall my life in the 70s and 80s, songs were one thing – bands another. For instance, I remember singing along to every cut on Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell whenever someone played that cassette on a boom box, usually on a bus ride to something like a field trip, a speech competition, a music contest or a softball game. Every song on that album was (is) incredible. I found (and continue to find) the lyrical imagery of songs like Paradise by the Dashboard Lights and You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth inspirational - poetically, metaphorically, and theatrically.
Seriously. For those who have ears to hear, rock has a heart. Heck, rock even has soul.
Still I could not bring myself to buy that revolutionary Meatloaf album so many years ago. A good girl like me simply could not own an album with such a hellish title. But what an awesome, awesome album. So awesome, in fact, that I finally broke down and bought it during my third decade of life. By then I didn’t even need to fool myself into believing that I only wanted it for workouts. I knew I just wanted to own it. Finally. For myself.
So imagine my adolescent conflict over a band that could make your heart ache with a ballad like Beth but was tagged with the demonic descriptor “Knights in Satan’s Service.” Instinct told me the erroneous moniker for KISS was overrated. Yet I remained cautious of being negatively affected by a band that was fronted by a gregarious “starchild” and a diabolical bass player who breathed fire and spit blood from a mouth that contained an extraordinarily long tongue.
I could never have owned one of their albums (as much as I would have loved to) let alone go to one of their concerts. Heavens! What would people have thought? What might have happened to me? Evidently this year, at 46 years of age, I no longer cared, for I was ready to kiss caution a fond farewell and welcome the wonder of KISS. Credit for this lies squarely with my oldest son, Stross, a card-carrying member of the KISS Army who began lobbying for a KISS birthday celebration in my honor as soon as he learned the band would appear at the Minnesota State Fair –“on your birthday, Mom!” That pronouncement occurred shortly after Memorial Day; my birthday occurred on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. I gave in to Stross’ suggestion just after Independence Day and then spent a few days musing over what I had done. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for me to understand that I was poised for one of my most magical birthdays ever. I was not wrong.
While I simply could not have gone to a KISS concert back when KISS first began reshaping the way music was made, somehow I could go to a concert of theirs as a grown, middle-aged woman in the company of her sons and her rocker-at-heart husband. I believe I became caught – once again – by Stross’ joy for the stuff of life. Such a gift. A wonderful birthday gift.
I cannot adequately convey how, as a teen, I was ill equipped to take in the multi-sensory sensationalism of a stadium filled with people who were ready to rock and roll all night and then party every day. Yet now I long for those kind of days, grateful that I can still introduce my children to the kinesthetic phenomenon that is KISS – a band no longer marked as Knights in Satan’s Service but, instead, revered as a group of 60-something super seniors (well, at least Paul and Gene) who are still able to capture the imaginations of everyone in a stadium while prancing across the stage in 40-pound glam costumes that feature 7” platform shoes and dramatic full-face make-up. And it must also be noted that they are still fully capable of flying into their light riggings to play soaring riffs that remind everyone that God really did give rock and roll for the pleasure of everyone. That night, when the stadium lights went dark and the announcer requested that we all get ready for “the hottest band in the world,” I did not get goose bumps. However, when the stage lights came up and the music swelled, my eyes locked onto the lighted KISS backdrop – still a classic – and I involuntarily smiled the entire time a hydraulic lift slowly moved the band down to the stage amid thunderous applause and cheering. I was at a KISS concert. Me. Thank you, Stross.
That beautifully cool evening, one of summer’s last, was just right for an outdoor concert. A time to kiss things of the past goodbye while welcoming a new year of life – the 46th year of my birth. Of my life.
Had it been a hot summer night, I might even have been ready to offer my “throat to the wolf with the red roses.” But it wasn’t a night for Meatloaf. It was a night for KISSing. More specifically, for collecting birthday kisses – from my husband, my youngest son, my oldest son; and yes, ladies and gentleman, even – metaphorically – from “the hottest band in the world: KISS!” . Who knows what the coming year will bring for me? Most likely, something I would never have been able to do when a young woman. And isn't that simply wonderful? Isn't that the way it should be?
Stross has a beautiful singing voice. We are daily reminded of that, as he sings through most of his day. Sometimes, like when he is in the bathroom completing his daily medical cares, he sings with a full, robust voice.
However, Stross is an elusive singer. By that I mean that you have to catch him singing, and you have to be an audience he trusts. Command performances are not this thing.
Well, there was a night back in May when he serenaded Mark and I with his rendition of "Beth" by KISS. That was the first time he a sang solo for anyone; I am glad it was for us. The performance happened at his initiative, and it was wonderful. So sweet. So pure. But I wasn't able to record it for posterity.
So ... a few weeks later we were riding in the car as a family. It was Mark and my anniversary, and Stross told us he wanted to sing "Beth" for us again as our gift. Because Stross sits directly behind me in our van, he couldn't see that I had grabbed the Flip camera and was capturing his voice (and his chatter) as he sang. That's why the video looks strange. I added a special effect on the imagery to distort the seat upholstery and the side of my door. They were too distracting. I only wanted the audio. I only wanted to preserve the moments filled with Stross' singing.
That brings me to today.
Today - Sept. 4 - is my birthday. I can guarantee that Stross will offer to sing "Beth" for me again as a gift. Guaranteed. I promise I will tell you why I am so confident about this in a future blog - once I have proof that I am right. And, if I am wrong, I will tell you that too. (But I won't be wrong.)
And I am so looking forward to my gift.
Until then, I see no reason that Mark, Skye and I are the only ones able to enjoy the delight of Stross' gift of song.
I am in a quiet place again, wondering if this state of mind may be one of my life's seasonal certainties - unavoidable August, if you will. My least favorite month of the year.
My youngest son might take offense at such a label, for one of the Augusts of my life brought him into our family. And other than the long days of doctor-ordered rest that were prescribed to combat pre-term labor, that August was pretty fantastic. Almost like the Augusts of my childhood. When I was a youth, my parents - both history teachers with an affinity for America - took my sister and me on epic tent-camping vacations throughout the country at the start of each August. One year my dad had us follow the path (sometimes the actual ruts) of the Oregon Trail. Another year we visited as many national parks and landmarks as possible in two weeks: Badlands, Mt. Rushmore, Yellowstone, Glacier, Grand Tetons. The August before my 16th birthday, the summer that Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour starred in Somewhere in Time, my parents took us to Mackinaw Island, the film's romantic location, where they tolerated my teen angst while wondering how many more years I'd willingly join them. No matter the arc of our journey, our travels would always bring us back by mid-August in time for the Fayette County Fair. I would spend that week of August helping my dad coordinate and run all the fair's special activities: horseshoe tournament, spelling bee, rolling pin throw, nail driving contest, sack race, pancake flipping contest, and an amazing amount of events more. Those were really good Augusts. Even the August prior to my 8th grade year when - sometime during my responsibilities at the fair - I discovered that I would need to begin shopping in the feminine hygiene aisle. Where did those awesome Augusts go?
This many years later, even that august supply aisle is a distant memory. I wonder when August began to feel like an obstacle - a time to live through in order to get to some place else.
When the words "quiet place" announced themselves in my mind today, I remembered that I had written a blog with the same title already. I searched to learn when and discovered that I had written that A Quiet Place blog during one of my life's Augusts: 2007.
Even that particular quiet place seems a lifetime ago; and in a way, it is. Involuntary Joy had just come out, and I had decided to move ahead with its second printing. By the next August, I had voluntarily put the book's momentum on hold to answer what I had perceived as a vocational call. Evidently I was in such a quiet place that August - 2008 - that I wrote no blog entries at all that month. But then, in mid-September, I emptied my heart into a blog that spoke of my frustrations as I hoped for a future.
And then there is last year's August - August of 2009. In the months previous to that August, I had fallen into such a quiet place, that I'd gone fully silent. I had written only one blog entry in May and one in June; both were republished pieces that I had originally written for others. But by September I was ready to live out loud again, letting go of things that no longer fit while looking for new undertakings to replace what felt lost.
From then until now, this InjoyBlog has been my lifeline. A safe place to be me: candid, introspective, honest, analytical ... vulnerable. I hope I can keep it that way. I hope I can resist the urge to fall deeply quiet again. Or maybe being quiet for a time - especially in August - is inevitable. Maybe it's my August thing.
Those of you who follow my InjoyBlog regularly - officially or unofficially - might recall that I regard birthdays as High Holy Days. Well, guess what. September is coming and all that month means to me: a time of review, renewal and rebirth.
I can hardly wait. Perhaps that is why I am in a quiet place. Perhaps this is my August of Anticipation. I hope so. And I guess there is only one way to find out: I plan to listen for lessons that linger in this August air, waiting for September to arrive.
September. My favorite month of the year.
Hey, September. I am looking forward to you and the possibility that you might bring a new way to live - maybe even a way that makes the month of August pretty awesome again.
Only nine days after his own birthday, Stross gets to celebrate a birthday again: Mark's. One of the inherent joys of belonging to Stross' family is getting to see life through Stross' eyes.
Yes, I used the term "Stross' family," for our separate lives have been pulled into orbits that each encircle his. Our family belongs to Stross. He claimed our lives – Mark's and mine – on the day of his birth. Skye didn't have a chance. He's belonged to his older brother since the day he arrived.
The four of us live symbiotically – some days, co-dependently. (We try to avoid those.) But by chance and by choice, our daily moments are interdependent; therefore, on days of celebration, Stross' palpable joy is ours.
I hope that - when you watch the vlog of Mark's birthday celebration - you are able to live a bit of the wonder we enjoy every day. It's the paradox of a younger brother teaching his older brother; a child leading his parents. An incredible young man living every moment to capacity and providing us moments of involuntary joy.
