Miles with Eyes

Home from run.  Called in both classes as Emma’s cold or whatever it is persists and I’ll be taking her to the doctor later.  Appointment’s at 4, I think.  Yeah, decided the writing father needs a day to collect certain ideas and meditate on certain realities, possibilities… one of which broadsided me this morning, an idea I’ve played with with extreme infrequency but never give it any dedicated dote.  Well, I thought about it the entire run, formulating more a less a business plan and budget in head.  No specifics here cited, just know this tentative assembly is done with my babies and wife in mind, providing the most comfortable and worry-free life possible, plating every opportunity possible for my babies.

I return from the run more motivated as a papa than I’ve ever been, that’s certain.  All writing fathers and parent have the contours in their heads, these convictions that give way to other conviction, always with those faces in mind, your children.  In their heads, you’ll take care of everything.  It’s not an expectation, it’s an already accented and cemented acceptance.  Daddy will solve everything.  Some dads filter this and it materializes as pressure and stress, angst and even resentment.  Me, I’m electrified at the reality and challenge of providing for my family, my writing saunters and skips across the page with more prance, more passion and music.

The house quiet, not wasting even a most microscopic breath in working.  Poured self another ice water, brewed coffee.  After this entry, researching approached for this new idea that hovered above and beside and inside me on the run like a curious phantasm, just wondering how I’m going to respond, how far I’ll go with the idea.  “OH,” I thought, “I will go quite far, don’t worry.” No, this “day off” isn’t a day off at all, I will just be a carnivore for possibilities— swimming in my oceans of curiosities and hypotheticals.  I’m still very much running, rewriting and writing and re-re-rewriting my story.  With little Emma and Jackie in sight.  Made more than the “right” choice calling classes off.  It was the only way I could steer this narrative.  I’m composed and content and collected with pages flying around this home office.  Sip water, what’s left, now to coffee.  What the writing father has to do is build with this new idea… investigate, notes, research, and then just bloody leap.

Too much measuring and planning keeps you in one place.  And by extension, will keep my family in one place.  Realizing I’m a different kind of writer.  Like I’m on assignment, but not.  Like I’m employed, but anything but.  Thinking of Emma, how she’s feeling, and Jack and what he’s learned to say today, what new wit he sharpens before returning home.  All seven of the run’s miles put me in a meditative hold, that won’t let me stop running, yes, but as well orders me to change.  Immediate, material change.  I play this music louder, celebrating, sipping coffee, seeing what’s ahead for us.