Two and a Half Men

Before I begin this post, let me take the time to acknowledge all the men out there who are fathers.  Not the men who went half on a child.  Not the men whose idea of fatherhood begins and ends with a state mandated payment.  Not the men who have absolutely no idea where there child is, and are not sick with wonder, trying everything in their power to find out.  These men are not fathers.  But I'm hoping one day they will try to be.

The fathers know who they are, and so today is for all of you.  I am thankful that, even though I can't provide as much as I desire to, the love and support that I give to my son places me in the father category.  That alone would make my own father proud.  And with those words, I begin.

Making my father proud may be the one unspoken factor that drives much of my determination and forces me to attempt greatness.  Though I have a long way to go, I anticipate the day that I can smile and know that it is so:  my father would have been very proud of me.  As I stare at the words on the screen, the 'would have been' stings me to the core.  My father passed in 2009, and I really don't think it's fully dawned on my yet.  I've grieved very little, but thought about it often, and I guess that's okay.  My how I miss him though....

And interestingly enough, with all of the life lessons and models of conduct that he left for me to dissect and follow, I see one in this as well.  You see, my grandfather passed in 1993.  I remember noticing my father in those rare moments when, reflecting on the loss or perhaps just remembering the man, he'd get lost in his emotions.  My father hardly ever cried.  In fact, I can barely remember more than a couple handfuls of times I saw my father in tears.  But he was an emotional man, even more so as I got older.  I remember watching him, think of his father, and once the sadness passed, there was such joy.  He remembered the man who taught him things. Who gave him love and guidance, nurtured things within him, and showed him how to find his own strength.  And this is what made him happy.

Now that these things have been passed on to me, I can put this sadness aside.  Although I miss my father dearly, I still have all of these memories.  Of him teaching me things.  Loving me.  Guiding me.  Giving me an example of how to be a man.

And I feel like I'm getting there.  I know where I want this life to take me, and I also see the possibilities of where my life can lead.  All of these are good places, so I smile.  In my mind, I am following the guidance of two and a half men.  The wisdom, direction, and strength of my grandfather.  The determination, humility, and love of my father.  And my own growth and understanding of it all, as I'm half way through implementing these things into becoming the man that I desire to be.

I know my son is watching.  And he is taking notes as well.  This too, would have made my father proud.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

The Occasional Crazy Rare Quote # 11

"All men by nature desire to know."

                                              ----  Aristotle

Unfortunately, it's the things we don't know that manage to stay on our mind the most.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Tapping into My Power

Moments ago, I just finished viewing a thunderstorm, complete with large streaks of lightning.  While they were in no way as massive as the one depicted above, they were breathtaking nonetheless.  I must admit that even I find it odd, this fascination I have with thunderstorms.  I enjoy going outside and watching.  Taking in the chaos.  Perhaps this says something about me, but I'll delve into that on another writing occasion.

Tonight, I am thinking about power.  Witnessing a thunderstorm, being within its midst as the loud crashes and illuminating flashes take place all around you, there has to be a sense of wonder.  The raw power stemming from what feels like every inch of the sky.  As I closed my eyes and began thinking, I started to wish I was this powerful.

Not to say that I want to streak across the sky or rumble through the clouds.  But in my everyday life, I wish I could tap into the energy of me, and release it as a thunderstorm.

A flash of ideas.  A seismic quake of possibilities.  My creativity forking out in bright branches, visible for all to see.  The sound of my promise echoing in the pits of anyone within range.

I want to tap into the power of me.  And I believe I can.

Confidence is the first step.  I have long downed myself as not being in the same position as others, for whatever reason.  But I'm beginning to realize that position is simply when potential has been realized and put forth into plan.  I haven't reached this point yet.  For far too long, I have been the constant reworking of a plan, instead of a plan set forth in motion.

Most people get caught up in planning, without ever understanding that the best way to formulate a plan is to try it out.  Failure is a much better tool to streamline a plan than simply scrapping it and attempting to brainstorm something better.

So now, I move into a mode of action.  Hopefully, in the end, my full power will be realized.

By then, I want to know how to use it.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Just A Bit of Randomness (Maybe)

I can imagine a conversation with her...on living, on writing, and purple things...

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

An Interesting Scene Got Me Thinking

Earlier this evening while outside on the balcony, I witnessed a moment that made me smile.  And then it got me thinking.  The scene, a father with his son, trying to teach the young boy to ride a small tricycle, created an ache within me that has been here ever since I moved, but has never really manifested itself, until now.

I really miss him.

I miss his curly hair, which mimics my own, when I was a child.  I miss his small fingers that are always grasping, and at night, when he sleeps beside me, usually find some way to play with my beard.  I miss that tiny voice, a ball full of cuteness, which spills out thoughts many years beyond his age.  And I miss those eyes, innocent and reassuring, telling me that no matter what choices I've made, there is love that lives within them.

I fear one day it will vanish.  That in my absence, it'll be less actions and more choices.  And admittedly, I've made some poor ones.  Beyond the fact that I chose to be a horrible match for his mother, I am afraid that my son will see my moving here as a decision to place him second.  That the better life I seek for myself, him, and all of our families, will do very little to sleight the sting of me not being there.  For the first few months of his life, I was there every day.  Many of those days, the very first and last set of eyes he'd see when waking or before falling asleep would be my own.  I hope, for both our sake, he has subconsciously latched hold of these memories, and he uses them as a blanket for the chill of far too many days where I am gone.  I don't want my son to only know me as a handful of scattered visits and awkward phone calls.

I want to hold him in my arms and tell him

"Just because I'm not there, it doesn't mean I don't love you."

I want to kiss him and squeeze him tightly, making him laugh and smile, and never cry.

I want to show him how much he means to me.

Because I fear at some point, these days will matter.  And my absence will speak louder than any words.

One day, my son may ask me,

"Daddy, why did you go?"

I guess I just hope that the answer I give him is enough to salvage his love, which I can't help but feel is lessening.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet