Caedmon Comma

We are more than we define ourselves by. We are more than our definition. When we look for more than what we more, is it because we are not aware of how much we have? 

 What does it mean to lose track of time? There is no tomorrow. There is no yesterday. There is only the present moment. How can we lose it? It is all there is.

Find yourself in the present moment, son. Know who you are in the now. Not who you will be someday. Not who you were in the past. No now. 

If you can find satisfaction and joy in the now. You have found it in eternity. 
 

"There is no path to happiness. Happiness is the path"

Caedmon Comma

We unknowingly veer from our best and from what is best for us. We sometimes drift off course, even while searching for destination. Perhaps, we just snooze at the wheel. Whatever the case, we end up at a place foreign and uncomfortable.

We forget that which is meant to guide us. We forget the navigational beacons that populate our lives and our souls.

When they are working, these beacons point us toward the best places for us. They show us the way through dangerous travel and assist us in finding the destinations that we need. When we leave these beacons, or ignore them, we find peril or hardship.

At times, it may be necessary to leave the guidance of the beacons. At times, you may have to explore the wild places beyond safety. There, you will experience toil, loss, and bewilderment. You will grow weary from facing the challenges and you will long for better places, for safety.

Remember, you can always go back. You can always find those beacons and follow them back to the path you once knew.

And when you do, we will be waiting and joyful with your return,

Dad

Caedmon Comma

My Son,

Tonight, you were mad. I don't mean that in the emotional sense, but in the psychologically euphemistic sense. You were so upset that you were filled with madness.

You had worked so hard to earn a particular privilege, but a series of behavioral missteps resulted in the revocation of those earned privileges.  Upon hearing that, you blew up. You screamed and yelled. You earned a few more revocations. This caused you to become all the more unhinged. You tore your room apart and even damaged some of your own stuff. But, this was not enough. You needed to hurt the people who had caused the injustice: your parents. So, you emerged out of your room, armed with several stuffed animals and proceeded to hurl them at me.

I was very proud of your arm accuracy. The first, some stuffed reptilian creature hit me square in the forehead. Your second toss (I think it was a small dog) also struck home. I announced that what you had just done was assault and that there would be consequences. At this, you abandoned your remaining ammunition and retreated to your wrecked room in a flood of tears and vehement condemnations.  

Your mother and I have tried to be consistent disciplinarians. We take it as a point of pride and pithy philosophy that we are not raising children -  we are raising responsible adults. Rules are rules and there are always consequences. In both of our professions, we see the results of parenting-gone-wrong. From time to time this dedication may result in your parents tending to overcompensate in our sternness. I can understand why you think that we are too harsh or too strict.

Once you settled down, we asked you into the dining room, sat you in a chair and announced that you were welcome to plead your case, but a punishment would be enacted. We listened as you rattled off a series of grievances about our own behaviors. We tried to understand your perspective. We attempted to apologize for misunderstandings and actual slights. But, your objections were found to be merit-less, and it was time for sentencing.

Oh... you moaned, it is going to be something horrible, and then you attempted to rehash all that we had done wrong. You had sat in that chair before and you knew that you were wrong. You knew how consistent your mom and dad were in rendering judgement for unacceptable behavior. So, you reached for every mitigating factor you could find and hurled them at us.  

I interrupted you and said, "You're forgiven."

I was not even sure that you knew what that word meant because it was the first time that word had been spoken from me to you. Forgiven.

Your mom and I try so hard to raise you and your sister right. We want to prepare you for the rigors of life and create moralities and work ethics that can thrive in a world that is harsh and sometimes dangerous. But, in that quest, we may fail to prepare you for something just as important, yet antithetical - love.

As you were railing against me with your long list of problems that you had with my parenting, and while I was attempting to listen, I was horrified to realize how very little of the Christianity - that I hold so dear - I have used in my relationship with you. And I wondered - what am I doing? What is the point of this? Perhaps his madness is justified. A world without grace is indeed maddening to me, isn't it?

In response to our reprieve, you became suddenly quiet. As you got up, you softly worked it out verbally.

Forgiven? That's surprising, you mumbled and shuffled off to another room.

You were right. It was surprising. It always is. It always should be.

A world bent on justice is sometimes interrupted by grace and mercy, son. Such things leave us unsettled, and unsure - foundation-less. Forgiveness is the shocking scandal that leaves us dumbfounded and wrecked.

Someday I hope you can surprise your kids with mercy. Someday, I hope you can grant forgiveness to me.


 

Caedmon Comma

You are everything a father could want in a son.

You're intelligence is an ocean that floods through every word. I look into your eyes and see a shocking depth and curiosity.

It is remarkable how often you use that impressive mind of yours for kindness, grace, and of course, humor.

Your're getting to the point now where you are apt to participate in adult conversations. You have startling questions, and more than a fair share of criticism. You read voraciously, remember everything, and often you use such knowledge to promulgate some new and wonderful observation.

My God! You are amazing!

Every interaction I have with you, makes me a better person, and everything you do makes this world a better place.

The last several nights I have noticed something as I prayed the blessing over you before bed. Clad in pajamas, teeth freshly brushed, you have pressed your hands together and closed your eyes while I prayed. I think that you are praying with me. But, not out of belief. No, belief is a door that few can open. Rather, it is something else - something I hope that you can teach me.


...

Caedmon Comma

My son,

I'm a pretty good guy in a crisis. For me, everything clicks in life's moribund moments. It all seems right in the catastrophic. I think this is because I was trained for the tragic. The tragic, however, has abandoned me.

My childhood was defined by crises - as are many. No complaints. I was raised by the good-hearted doing the best they could. Yet, now, I am older and my life has run dry of crises. Our family tranquilly plods toward goodness and peace.  What is a tragic man to do?

Your mother is teaching me to love, and the family that we have built is picturesque in its beautiful momentum . And you, my boy, are a theophany if there ever was one.

I wish I could show you how proud I am of you - how happy you make me. But, I am ill prepared for this vacuous glory.

Tonight, I sat and pondered the southern moon. It was bright, unobstructed, and real. The silence of the night was everywhere, and sacred.

I thought of you as I stood and looked to the north. My shadow was long and animated.  The shadow showed a man, a father, who could exist in the light.


...

Caedmon Comma

your truth
2007

   

Caedmon Comma

My Son,

Time is a celestial illusion. We see the sun rising and setting. We see the moon waxing and waning. The trees turn in loyalty to the Autumnal preface and flowers bloom, obedient to spring.

It is tempting to think that the Sun sets at the conclusion of our day and that the Summer commences to close our Spring. But we are irrelevant. Our watches and our clocks were created to measure the illusory.

Beyond the illusion, lies the harsh beauty of a Cosmos that founded us.  Giant orbs fly around eachother through the enternity of space. They are all on spacial circuits that take eons to complete. A millenium is a microscopic entity, unrecognized by the ancients of the sky. Yet, their forces and their gravities turn them into the spinning inevitabilities which we use to define our lives and seperate our moments.

The Earth spins one day to the next, and it hurtles through the seasons of the year. Our entire reality is the result of a rock that wobbles and spins and is irresitably pulled toward the sun... Toward the future.

Time is an illusion that is so meaningless that it is the truest definition of the life we find ourselves within.

Time is an illusion and the life you now live is the exploration of this illusion.


Dada

Caedmon Comma

My son,

Beware of "meaning," if you have the means. It robs us of something - something that is real and true. It changes us and recreates us. We morph into citizens of some universe composed of (Im)possibility. Meaning makes us slaves of desire and addicts to ambition. 

When we are defined by meaning, we are defined by the moment that is not yet, while the moment before is shrouded in regret. That shroud is composed of material that is not real, my son. It is an illusion of the Meaning that robs, that pilfers our moments. 

I must tell you - warn you - that I will care very much about your meaning. I've been well trained. I can't help it. I'll use horrible words like success and failure, as if you are some investment.  But you will be wise enough to overcome. 

 

Please teach me some better way.  Guide me on a path that I have never traversed. Help me as I travel toward a meaningless end and uncertain destination. 

I love you. 

I mean it. 

Caedmon Comma

My son,

Late in the night, while we are all asleep, there is a shadow that sometimes passes through the house. It is a small shadow, and brief. It is hardly noticeable as it moves across the thresholds and window panes. But, it is there, nonetheless. It is a nocturnal constant.

It appears every time our skeptical, sleeping minds reject some impossible alternative mirage.

Our waking reality imposes itself. Our waking reality demands control, it over powers the flighty nonsense and enforces discipline. Follow the rules, it insists.

The alternative mirage won't take that shit. It can't be constrained or defined. It has to be wild and reckless. So, it slips away, quiet as a small shadow, so as not to wake us.    


Lost in Shadow,

Dad

Caedmon Comma

My son, 

We talk about some strange things, don't we?

I like science and math more than other things, Daddy. 

Yeah, I know, buddy. You are really good at those things. 

I like to learn about machines. B I G machines. 

Oh, yeah?

Yeah. Why do things die? Am I going to die?

Well, what do you think? Why do things die?

I don't know. 

I don't know either.

Where do people go when they die?

Where do you think they go?

I don't know. Can we get some ice cream? 

Well, we probably should.  

 Caedmon, you're so awesome. You know just how to astound and make your Dad proud.



Dad.

Caedmon Comma

My son,

Today you were such a great help. We went to the back yard garden and planted all sorts of plants. We planted peppers, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, and more. Our hands were filthy by time we were done. We walked into the house and washed those filthy hands. The water ran over our fingers and palms and flowed down the drain of our bathroom sink.

Of course, we don't want the dirt from our garden all over our house, so it is good that we washed our hands. But, dirt is nonetheless very important. The dirt is the stuff that our vegetable plants stretch their roots. Those roots fade to small fibers that gathering nutrients and sustenance for the plants' growth. The sustenance is fed into the fruit of the plant that we are able to gather.

The roots give more to the plant. It anchors the plant in its place. A random breeze will not topple or remove the rooted plant. the roots cling and hold the plant where it is, resisting turbulence.

The fruit does not grow without the roots in the dirt.

This present moment is connected, rooted in the moment before. This moment draws from its roots for sustenance and anchorage. The moments before define the current one. The current life you are living is full of wonderful fruits: hope and beauty. But, it is lived rooted in lives that have preceded this one. These lives brought us ours and the fruits thereof:

Reyes, your great grandfather  
Maurilia, your great grandmother
Julia, your great grand mother
Louis, your great grandfather
Maria, your grandmother

 And, rooted, we grow and we grow.

Caedmon Comma

My Son,

A man and his son were riding along in a creaking horse-drawn wagon. The plodding horse kicked dust into the air all around, as the sun beat down to warm the plain.  They were on their way from some where, and on their way to somewhere, all at once.

'What's that, Pa?'

They were passing by a rocky rise with what looked to be the opening to a small cave. Around the hill were crosses marking graves. There were at least fifty crosses jutting from the ground, encircling the cave's opening.

'Long time ago,' the father explained, 'there was a rumor started going around about a huge vein of gold that could be got to in that there cave.' He paused to spit and wipe his brow. 'I guess people just went kinda crazy.'

'Well, what happened, Pa?'

The cave was now behind them as the horse continued its oblivious progress.

The father was quietly thinking before he spoke. 'People showed up from all over the place. Of course, the owners of the land wanted it all to themselves, so they was there waitin'. The Indians even showed up 'cause the cave was sacred or some such. One thing led to another and the killin' started. People were shot, stabbed, or beaten til they were dead.'

'Who won? I mean, who got the gold cave?' the boy asked, excited.

'Don't know,' the father answered. 'Far as I can tell, the dead own it. I suppose they paid enough for it.'


A buzzard or some other large bird soared over them turning slowly on the wind, waiting for the death of some living thing to feast upon; by which, it might subsist for another period of time.

'I can't imagine all that killin' for gold.' The boy looked off in the distance, imagining the human depravity conjured by wealth. 'What a bunch of awful people.' 

The boy's father focused on the road ahead, gazing through the dusty forthcoming road. After a few moments he said, 'Five of those grave crosses back yonder are there because of me.'

His son looked over at him, incredulous. His father did not return the glance. The boy looked away and focused on the road ahead.

'It's the damnedest thing,' the man finally said. 'Insanity and murder are just a rumor of gold away.'

Dada

Caedmon Comma

Once there was a little boy who loved maps. He collected them, studied them, and used them to dream of distant and exotic places. He learned to appreciate the fine details and the craftsmanship in the creation of a map.

There was one map that he valued above all others. He found the map buried in a pile of unwanted junk at a library and immediately appreciated its value. It was exquisite and precise. It was a masterpiece of art, more than a navigational tool. He was granted permission to keep it and spent many hours studying and admiring the map. He vowed to find the great mapmaker that had created such an extraordinary piece.

The boy grew to become a man, and a great mapmaker himself. He studied cartography, traveled the world, and became renowned for his precise, skilled work. In all his travels, he continually searched for the mapmaker responsible for his treasured map.

His skilled knowledge of the world and exhaustive travels brought him to a remote island, where few had ever been. There, he found the great Mapmaker.

He was pointed to a small hut, high upon a hill. The boy who had become a man, stepped into the hut to meet the great Mapmaker, and was shocked by who he found within. There, in the hut, surrounded by the tools of his great craft, was a little boy who loved maps.


Dada

Caedmon Comma

My Son,

There are new losses around every bend of this road which you are treading upon. These strange losses are unholy moments that strip us of innocence and rob us of love and thinkers call them 'truth'. Beware of these new losses. Be aware of the evil in 'truth'. It makes us old and fierce.

You've experienced a few bends in the road this week, haven't you? This was your first week of Kindergarten and in the midst of all the excitement and sparkling potential, I have seen truth in your eyes - strange losses and moments unholy.

What animals are we that we would send our children to lap up a putrid river of ferocity and call it education? What sort of hate must I retain for you that I could possibly watch you walk down the treacherous road with nothing to defend yourself. I just stand there, biting a knuckle and hoping against hope that something good comes from it all.

But, you are good and brave and you always seem to retain a powerful grace. Grace may be despised in this world, and hateful things might arise on your road. But you have the power of your very existence. You will fell every monster in your path - they will fall beneath your grace. But, when they fall, you will know that these are unholy moments and new losses.

image source: deviant art

Dada

Caedmon Comma

My Son,

I, your father, feel like a bastard.

Of course, 'bastard' has multiple meanings. I suppose I often feel like a bastard in the slang meaning of the word. However, at this present moment, I'm referring to the older more literal meaning of the word.

bastard (plural bastards) A person who was born out of wedlock and hence often considered an illegitimate descendant.

I was up all night last night and the word that reverberated in my head, the word that kept me up, was 'family.' I used to belong to something. I used to be part of a family. There was a father and a mother, and brothers and sisters galore. The Family gave me meaning and truth, and hope stained every intention.

The Family and I had a falling out. So, here I am, without it.

I didn't stomp out pouting, and they didn't give me the boot. In fact, many siblings are surprised to find out I am so bastardized. They keep acting as if I am still a part of the Family.

I think I woke up one day and realized Our Father had ran out to grab a pack of smokes and took his suitcase with him. I didn't want to disturb the brothers and sisters, so I didn't say anything. Things went on as normal. Nobody seemed to notice. This may seem strange, but He was never really around that much, anyway. So, no big deal. But, finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I sneaked out. I told the brothers and sisters that I would be back.

They weren't concerned. After all, I was just stepping out to get a pack of smokes.

Yet, there I was last night, wondering about my brothers and sisters... wondering about Our Father.

He may have been a deadbeat, and They may have been a naive bunch of Pollyannas, but they are family. I miss them. I remember the songs we used to sing, even after Our Father went out for smokes. I recall how eagerly we awaited His return - how every passing car was a heart palpitation. I remember how the walls were painted with hope.


Your Father

Caedmon Comma

My son,

They aren't all the same. At least, I don't think they are.

Sometimes they step out of your way.
Sometimes they steal your things.
Sometimes they look you in the eye.
Sometimes they reach out
and touch you
with an embrace
that you hope will never end.

I wish I could tell you that people are good and that people are trustworthy, but people are just as likely to be violent as they are likely to be caring. Sometimes the most loving are the most hateful. I just don't know.

I love it when you talk to me. You tell me about your passions and interests and I just want to leap with the joy of having a son like you.

But I don't.

I don't leap.

I don't even know how.

You hardly ever look me in the eye during these times. I suppose that is mostly my fault. I've unwittingly taught you not to. Shame is a suffocation that threatens our every chat. You are completely free of it. You have a boisterous joy that is wild, uninhibited.  I, however, overflow with its silent horror. And into the vacuum that is your joy, my shame floods and fills, and I look to the floor.

Dada, look at me

Our chats are always an exploration of that which separates us. I can hardly look at you. You are far too good and kind and far too ready to love. So, your eyes join me in staring everywhere - anywhere but at each other.

So, I don't know. I don't know what to tell you about people. Except that some people are like me - ignorant of the good and whole, mired in hatred and shame. But, some people can also be full of joy and peace and sacramental flame. Most people are both at once.

I can't look at you.
The shame of it -
What I have always sought
Is seeking me
and truth
I cannot give.


Dada

Caedmon Comma

It is tempting to worry over you and your future.

You are such a sensitive little boy right now. There are times that I will catch just sitting and watching people - enraptured and learning. But, it is not necessary for you to be observing them directly. For, you can be playing or wrapped up in a project and still be listening and learning. You are quick to emulate your peers and repeat the things they say. Rarely are you ever the leader in a social situation. You seem content to sit back and blindly follow.

There are times you do or say the craziest, most random things, and we eventually find that these things have been learned by some friend.

You are sweet and innocent. You know the thrill of belonging and believing. It is so easy for you to find your smile when you are with loud and lively friends. That smile - a merciless deluge of pure joy - I love seeing it.

In fact, the only time you ever seem to assert your independence is when it comes your mom and me. You are more than willing to look skeptically upon our words and promises. There are times that you lash out at us in anger, or sulk away in a resigned, bitter surrender.

You know, we spend so much energy and time trying to keep the horrors of the world away from your field of vision. We try to insulate you from all the mess that weighs us down. But, I see that it has seeped into your life already. This seepage wasn't something we could have easily prevented, for we are its source.

With nausea, I realize that your mom and dad taught you about disappointment and shame. In some weird way, I think we're supposed to teach you such things. It is a part of what a smart guy once called the process of 'individuation.' You become who you are by distinguishing yourself from us.

That's fine. I get it.

But, your deluge smile is so powerful and such an incendiary joy that I wrecked by knowing I could suppressed it in any way. Don't let me or anyone else do that. Embrace your shame, accept the disappointments, and let your deluge smile flood over the world.

Caedmon Comma

My Son, you have nowhere to be.

I drive too fast. You may have noticed.

When the cops pull you over and you give them some lame excuse, they always say, 'Well maybe you should've left earlier.' And, of course they are right. But, I speed even if I have plenty of time. I speed when I just take you your sister out on a casual drive.

Why do I drive so fast? Why am I always in a hurry, even if I'm not going anywhere?

I'm starting to realize that I'm  only in a rush when I am not somewhere. I rush when I am between places, even if there is no reason to hurry. I think this silly manic place is a result of an old insecurity:

I want to be somewhere.

When I look in the mirror, I don't want to see some nowhere person, I want to see a man that is somewhere. I prefer to be at my destination than en route. Yet, it seems that I have spent my whole life en route. Life has been full of location changes, job changes, and transitions. All I want is to arrive.

So, I speed, hoping to arrive sooner.

I remember one time when I did not speed. You don't remember it. You were only two days old.

We put your small self in a carseat. We fussed with the buckles and straps and made sure that the blankets were just perfect. Your mom sat in the backseat with you and I climbed behind the driver's seat. I started the car, released the clutch and slowly pulled away. Everything was done carefully. For, I knew that you, the most precious thing in my life, were in the backseat.

We took our sweet time getting back to our house that day. No hurry, no rush. I was cognizant of safety, yes, but I also had a realization. I had nowhere to be. My most pressing destination was tucked into blankets and buckles in the backseat of our slow-moving car.

My son, I hope that you are never driven by destination or insecure about where you are. For, you are the destination.

Caedmon Comma

My son,

My heart is not so harsh as my eyes, I hope. I know how often I must frustrate you. In fact, you tell me so on a regular basis. I can become so focused on my own rules and expectations that I forget you are learning and that sometimes learning is difficult.

Please always remember that I am also learning, and it is difficult for me, too.

Dada

Caedmon Comma

My Son,

Why can't you stop? Just stop.

 You started pre-school a little while ago. You had a backpack on and bravely waltzed into a future that I could not guarantee. Your future will look a lot like my past, no doubt - bullies, girls, danger, and beauty. You are proud to be growing older and tackling new adventures. But, your mother and I are scared to death.

 Where did our little boy go? How did you get so big, so old, so fast? Were we just not paying attention? Has it really been 4 years.

Four.
Wonderful.
Years.

It seems like just yesterday that you spent most of your days sleeping, and when you weren't sleeping you would stare fascinated at your hands or cry for milk. Now, you are so much bigger and older and smarter. You're off to school! But, all this growing and learning comes with a daunting price. You're no longer as innocent and you're no longer fascinated by your hands.

And we want to stop the inevitable. We want to ensure that you don't outgrow us. Maybe we just want you to stop so that we can catch up.

Part of it is pure selfishness. We've grown used to having you around 24/7. In fact, we may have taken it for granted. We used to hang on your every coo and breath. Eventually, your voice and activity  became just a buzz of background noise. You faded from the foreground to the background. 

Now, since you now spend so much of your days at school. We no longer have you, and your beautiful voice and your wonderful activity and we miss you. 

My son, you're getting older and better - more righteous and wonderful by the day. We love to watch in wonder as you evolve. You remain our light and glory. You are a blazing astronomical source of hope and truth. 

And we love you. 

 

Yours, 

Dada